


Out of the Night That Covers Me

by Ael



Series: Invictus [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Abduction, Amnesia, Bittersweet Ending, Character-Driven Plot, Crew as Family, Disability, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muteness, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Beta Read, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Sign Language, Slavery, This was supposed to be gen, goddammit bones, goddammit jim, these two nerds I swear to god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 63
Words: 88,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9678365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael/pseuds/Ael
Summary: No memories, no name, no voice. When you don't know who you are, how can you find the way home?





	1. Chapter 1

_Captain's Log, stardate 2264.105. The_ Enterprise _has just completed a twenty-day voyage to chart unusual spatial anomalies near the Romulan Neutral Zone. While nothing of immediate strategic interest has been discovered, Science Officer Spock assures me that the scientific data will be an invaluable contribution to the understanding of astrophysics and quantum mechanics._

_We are due to enter orbit around commerce planet Ek Chuaj around oh-nine hundred hours today. Starfleet survey reports indicate that it will be an excellent place to spend what may be our last shore leave on our five year mission. It's been some time since our last opportunity for a break, though crew performance remains admirable as always, despite the stresses of long-term space travel. I, for one, am looking forward to putting solid ground under my feet for an evening._

 

It feels a little odd to be walking the halls of the _Enterprise_ in civilian clothing, completely devoid of Starfleet insignia. He's not the only one, of course; crewmen on their way to the transporter room nod in greeting as he passes by, eager to start their own shore leave. Kirk knows just how they feel. Opportunities for proper shore leave don't come along often, out in the black. And even though being a starship captain is the best thing he's ever done with his life, even he wants a breather every once in a while, leaving his ship in Spock's able hands for a short time.

 

He rounds the corner to Sickbay and pokes his head inside, quickly scanning the room for McCoy. The CMO's office door is open, and Kirk makes a beeline for it. "Bones! Come on, the planet's waiting."

 

McCoy is seated at his desk, still in his shipboard blues, paging through what looks like a massive backlog of patient files. He doesn't look up at the captain's entrance, focused entirely on his work. "Sorry, Jim, I've got to finish this. I've been too busy to review half the crew's physicals from last month and this is the first chance I've had in days."

 

Kirk doesn't bother to hide his disappointment. But duty comes first, even for him, so he understands. "How about drinks later?" he suggests instead, leaning against the doorframe. "Message me when you're done and we can meet up at a bar." He'll have to find something to do with himself in the meantime, of course, but there's a whole planet down there to explore. There's bound to be something interesting.

 

McCoy waves a hand vaguely in his direction. "Sure thing. Could be a few hours."

 

"No problem. I'll see you later."

 

It feels like any other day as Kirk turns away from Medical, making his way to the transporter room. No looming diplomatic incidents hanging over him, no unexplained mysteries to solve, just a routine beam-down and a new culture to explore, and a promise of a relaxing evening with his best friend, away from the pressures of command. Situation normal, everything a-okay.

 

In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign.

 

* * *

 

The streets of Ek Chuaj are crowded with humans and aliens alike, all mingling together in a shifting mass of people, flowing from one merchant stall to another, or into and out of various businesses that line the main walkway. It reminds Kirk of old holovids he's seen about Old Las Vegas, full of flash and spectacle, bright lighted signs beckoning you in to spend your hard-earned cash on shiny gizmos or gamble it away to the house. There's a kind of excited energy in the air, the merchants eager to earn their keep, their customers eager to find whatever they're looking for.

 

Kirk loses himself in the crowd almost immediately, wandering with the flow of the crowd, content to window-shop for the time being. He doesn't recognize most of what's on display, so he gravitates towards the stalls advertising strange-looking bottles of alcohol, or so he presumes. Familiar text catches his eye, and he picks up a bottle inscribed with Romulan characters. His knowledge of the language is a bit rusty, but he knows enough to tell that it's a kind of berry wine, the much more legal cousin of Romulus's most famous contraband.

 

The merchant is a species that Kirk has never seen before, some kind of insectoid race, and it chitters at him, holding out a multi-jointed leg. The universal translator implant in his ear apparently hasn't heard the language either, because it doesn't give him any help. The captain smiles, hoping that it's not an insult in the merchant's culture, and digs in his pocket for a handful of the local currency, stamped metal chips instead of electronic signatures. He counts out ten of the chips, holding them out to the bugman.

 

The merchant gestures to his other hand, indicating that he owes more, so Kirk adds another three. Satisfied, the alien takes the chips and trills at him. "You're welcome," Kirk says, even though the merchant likely won't understand him. It's still worth the effort.

 

The captain tucks the bottle under his arm and moves along the street, falling back into the flow of the crowd. There's an interesting smell in the air, something that reminds him of the Tellarite version of barbeque, and his stomach growls in interest. A wisp of white smoke curling up from a point further down the street seems a likely source, and he starts heading that way, in no rush to skip past any of the merchandise on display in between. He's always on the lookout for interesting souvenirs to keep from his journeys across the galaxy, and you never know what you might find, even out here.

 

Kirk pauses to look at a display of bound paper books, most written in languages he doesn't recognize, but there is a volume of Vulcan poetry mixed in amongst the alien texts. He leans closer to examine it, and there's a small sting on the back of his neck, barely more than an insect bite. _Figures that even alien planets have mosquitoes._ He uses his free hand to brush at his neck, batting away something tiny and hard, maybe a beetle of some kind, and thinks little of it.

 

He straightens, and shakes his head at the bookseller to indicate he won't be buying today, before moving on down the street. Everything seems to be getting noisier, the cacophony of the alien crowd more and more discordant, and he stumbles as someone cuts through the crowd and shoulder-checks him as they pass, nearly throwing him to the ground. "Hey, watch where you're going!" he calls out, but they're already gone, swallowed up in the mass of people.

 

Out of nowhere, a steadying hand appears on his elbow, hauling him back to his feet. "Careful, now," a sibilant voice hisses, and Kirk turns to see a massive, muscle-bound Gorn holding him up. "It is easy to get lost here. Let me help you."

 

"I'm fine, thanks," Kirk says, but the lizardman's grip is inescapably strong, and he finds himself being manhandled through the crowd. _Something isn't right here._ "Let me go," he says, drawing on every inch of command he possesses. He'd rather not get into a brawl right in the middle of the crowd, if he can avoid it. His days of punching first are over.

 

The Gorn doesn't obey, hissing, and it drags him into a narrow alley just off the main walkway. "Come quietly, human. It will be easier for you."

 

 _Bones is gonna hate me._ Everything's starting to look slightly blurry around the edges, and his fingers are starting to go numb. _Drugged?_ Whatever it is, he has a feeling he won't be in fighting shape for much longer, and he tries to twist out of the Gorn's iron grip, to no avail.

 

 _Dammit. What a waste of thirteen chips._ He uses his free arm to grab the wine bottle by the neck and swings it his captor, smashing it over the lizardman's head. Dark red blood oozes from a gash in the Gorn's scales, and it roars in pain and anger, squeezing Kirk's arm hard enough that he can hear the bones creak.

 

A clawed paw lashes out towards the captain's face, and he plunges instantly into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

"Doctor McCoy, what are you still doing here?"

 

Nurse Chapel's voice draws McCoy out of the near-meditative state he's been in for the last few hours, and he looks up, blinking as he becomes aware that his ass is practically molded to his chair and his stomach is growling like there's no tomorrow. "What time is it?" he asks.

 

"It's almost eighteen hundred," Chapel replies, looking at him in concern. "You've been working all day. Have you even eaten anything?"

 

McCoy grimaces at the reminder. _I call out Jim all the time for not taking the time to eat, and here I am, doing the same damn thing. I don't know if he's a bad influence, or if I'm just a hypocrite._ "Not since breakfast. You're right, it's time for a break." He manages to smile at her, and turns back to his workstation to save his work. His neck feels stiff from sitting still so long, and he twists his head around to pop his vertebrae, the momentary pain worth the relief that comes after.

 

On the way to his quarters, McCoy opens his communicator and types out a quick message. _Hey Jim, I'm free for dinner. Find anywhere interesting? -LHM_

 

Now that he's remembered how long it's been since he ate, he doesn't have a clue how he's ignored the hunger 'til now. He tosses the comm unit on his bed and strips off his shipboard blues, digging through his wardrobe to find suitable civvies to wear down to the planet. It's been a while since he's been able to shed the skin that Starfleet makes him wear, and it almost feels odd to leave the blue behind.

 

He tugs the jacket over his shoulders and runs a hand through his hair, getting it back into some semblance of order, before picking up his communicator, fully expecting to see Kirk's reply. But the screen is blank, and McCoy frowns at it, a little puzzled. It's rather unlike the captain not to answer his messages, even after a short amount of time, and unease twists in his gut. _I'll give him ten more minutes. Maybe he's in the middle of something._

 

But as the minutes tick by and his communicator remains silent, his unease ramps up into full-blown worry. "McCoy to bridge."

 

The answer is immediate. " _Bridge, Spock here._ "

 

"Spock, when's the last time the captain checked in?" McCoy asks, trying to keep his voice steady. There's any number of perfectly reasonable explanations why Kirk hasn't responded, but if the last few years are any indication, it's more than likely something horrible's happened to him instead. Kirk attracts trouble like honey brings in flies.

 

Spock pauses, and sounds slightly puzzled, by Vulcan standards. " _Captain Kirk has not hailed the_ Enterprise _since his arrival on Ek Chuaj. He is not scheduled to check in for another forty-six minutes. Is something amiss?_ "

 

"Maybe," McCoy answers. "He hasn't responded to my messages, and he was champing at the bit to get me down there with him when he left this morning."

 

" _Understood, doctor. Please stand by._ " The line goes silent for several moments, presumably as they attempt to contact the captain, before Spock returns. " _Captain Kirk is not acknowledging our hails. Please join me in the transporter room immediately._ "

 

_You don't need to tell me twice._ "Way ahead of you, Spock." McCoy is on his feet and making tracks towards the transporter room before Spock even finishes his sentence, pausing only to grab his medkit on the way out of his quarters. _I hope to God I don't need it._

 

He beats Spock and the security team there by about fifteen seconds, and for once, he's the first man on the transporter pad, sparing nary a thought to his fear of the damn thing. Kirk's in trouble, and if that means he has to get his atoms scattered from here to Georgia, then so be it. White haze swirls around the four of them, and when it fades, they're standing in a bustling alien marketplace, full of all sorts of unfamiliar sights and smells. Something smells like barbeque, but he dismisses the scent immediately, his hunger completely forgotten.

 

Spock has a tricorder out immediately, tracking the captain's communicator signal. "This way," he says, cutting a path through the crowd. It's slow going, fighting against the relentless current of people, and more than once McCoy is nearly separated from them, struggling back towards those flashes of red and blue he can see through the gaps in the crowd.

 

The dense mass of people finally eases up as Spock leads the group into an alley, just off the main drag. Just out of sight of the crowd, isolated in a narrow nook, away from prying eyes. The Vulcan stops in place and raises an eyebrow, slowly turning in a circle. "The captain's signal stops here."

 

McCoy's heart drops into his boots. There's no one here. Just overflowing trash receptacles, broken glass, and a plethora of disgusting stains in the concrete. His fingers clench around the medkit, knuckles turning bone-white. "Spock..."

 

"Doctor McCoy," Spock interrupts, before he can truly get going, "please assist us with the search. The captain's communicator must be present, and there may be additional clues to his whereabouts."

 

The two security officers immediately begin digging through the garbage with nary a complaint, and McCoy looks down at the ground, feeling cast adrift, without a clue what he should be looking for. There's a deep brown stain of some kind that looks kind of like a clawed foot, and upon closer inspection, that's exactly what it is. _Goddammit._ McCoy pulls out his tricorder and begins to scan, catching a whiff of something almost sickly sweet. "Traces of alcohol and two kinds of hemoglobin. One's definitely human."

 

And now that he's looking, the stains continue further down the alley, away from the main street, a series of drips and one larger smudge that looks like something was dragged for a brief time. The trail ends abruptly, indicating a beam-out. McCoy's heart feels like a block of ice in his chest as he sets the tricorder to a deeper scan, comparing the DNA in the blood to shipboard records. _Match found: Kirk, James T._

 

"Sir!" One of the security officers holds up a battered Starfleet-issue communicator, covered in all kinds of unthinkable filth, smeared with brown dried blood.

 

"Something took him," McCoy says grimly, showing Spock the blood analysis. "He's definitely hurt. He was bleeding a lot, so either it's a head wound or he's hurt bad. Trail's old enough that the blood's had a chance to dry, so it's been at least an hour."

 

"We must contact the local authorities," Spock decides, turning to the security officers. "Secure the site. We must preserve the crime scene if the captain is to be located in a timely manner."

 

* * *

 

The authorities, such as they are, are almost completely unhelpful.

 

"We are very sorry, commander," says a weaselly little runt of a man, his clothes as shabby as his attitude. "We don't track our visitors once they depart. I can give you a list of ships that have left in the past six hours, but I'm afraid we have no information on their exit vectors."

 

McCoy wants to scream and shake the man by his shoulders. Instead he grits his teeth and grinds out, "Our captain was abducted on _your_ planet. Now forgive me if I'm wrong, but you sure as hell don't seem concerned about the shitstorm that is coming your way if you don't help us find him and get him back."

  
The shabby man's eyes widen slightly. "Believe me, sir, I take my job entirely seriously. I am not lying when I say that we simply do not have the infrastructure for what you're asking. If your captain was aboard another ship that departed our planet, we truly have no way to determine which one it was, or where it went."

 

Spock looks entirely unperturbed. His face may as well be chiseled from stone, more Vulcan than he normally is, which is how McCoy knows he's worried to bits. "You are concealing something from us."

 

The man hesitates, sweating a bit under the Vulcan's intense gaze. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"That is a falsehood." Spock does not sound like he's guessing, and he barely blinks as he stares the man down.

 

The man's resolve folds like wet tissue paper, assuming he had any to begin with. "Your captain is not the only visitor to disappear in recent weeks," he admits. "Occasionally, attractive members of various species go missing, with little evidence to trace them. This close to the Neutral Zone, all kinds of unsavory businesses crop up... we can't stop them all."

 

The chill in McCoy's heart settles in deep. "You're talking about slavers."

 

The man doesn't try to deny it. "We don't condone it, but they are difficult to find and even more difficult to shut down. Chances are your captain is on his way to the black market as we speak."

 

Spock's expression is glacial, but his dark eyes flash with fury. "You will launch a full investigation into this matter. Any relevant findings will be forwarded to the _Enterprise_ immediately. If you do not cooperate, you will learn what it is to have Starfleet Command's full and complete attention for allowing the flagship's captain to be abducted within your jurisdiction."

 

McCoy gets no satisfaction in seeing the fearful compliance in the man's eyes. Kirk is missing, and they have no way to find him. "Spock," he hisses as they leave the planetary police station, "what the hell are we going to do?"

 

Spock's voice is uncharacteristically quiet when he replies, uncertain. "Whatever we can, doctor."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have probably butchered the Romulan language so badly and will continue to do so. My sincere apologies. All translations done by me, using the [Romulan Language Institute](http://rihan.org/drupal/).

Darkness. Pain.

 

He drifts in the black, agony echoing through his head, consuming everything. Every thought, every breath, every moment. He groans, and even the vibrations from his own voice throb deep into the cracks of his skull and tear it apart, blanketing the blackness in red.

 

Voices filter down through the void, and a flash of light pierces the dark, stabbing straight into his brain. "Khia feanna! Khia wanarari na laorhoeri."

 

Another voice, deeper, hissing like the blood rushing through his ears. He can't make out any words, just noises, but deliberate. Not like an animal.

 

The first voice spits, contemptuous. "Emael abhhil. Emael neisslho."

 

He manages to crack open his eyes, the world a blur above him, his thoughts muddled, slipping past him like water through fingers. Shadowy figures loom over him, and one shines a light into his eyes, blinding him with agony. He blinks hard, trying to squint past it, and he catches a glimpse of pointed ears and cold eyes. "Where...? Who...?" he croaks out, something inside him telling him that this is not okay, that these people - whoever they are - are not friends. He doesn't recognize them.

 

But... why would he?

 

He reaches up with fumbling fingers, something matted and tacky in his hair, and his hands come away smudged with metallic-scented red. Pain throbs from the spot he touches, and he closes his eyes again, listening to the voices standing over him. He should know what they're saying, but it's all gibberish, floating through an already muddled mind.

 

"Atsaen mnean payruti esael elet. Yytaera'e."

 

Stomping, scraping footsteps resonate through his skull, mercifully quieting as the hissing one leaves the room. Cruel hands poke at him, roughly yanking his head to the side, and there's a humming noise as something warm presses against him. Some of the pain drains away, leaving behind a dull throbbing in its wake, and he can open his eyes without feeling like something sharp is stabbing into him.

 

The one with cold eyes leans over him, joined by another of his kind, so quiet he didn't even hear her approach, this one sporting cropped red hair. _I should know what they're called..._ But he can't remember.

 

Can't remember anything.

 

But they took away some of the pain, so... maybe they'll help him? "Who are you?" he asks, the words rasping in his throat. But that's not really the question he wants the answer to, now that he can think without the words rattling around in his skull. "Who am I?"

 

Cold Eyes doesn't react to his questions, but Red Hair raises an arrow-straight eyebrow. "Ssuaj-difv rrhae?" she asks, and waits expectantly.

 

It's so naggingly familiar, like he should be able to understand, but the dull gnawing in the front of his brain won't let him concentrate enough to place it. "I'm sorry, I don't... don't know what that means."

 

Red Hair shakes her head and looks at Cold Eyes. "Mosiurret'e aei. Mosdailce'e aei. Stheirhn'e ehl'iaehhs ssiun aei."

 

Cold Eyes bows his head. "Au'e, alha."

 

A shiver goes down his spine as Red Hair walks away, and Cold Eyes retrieves some silver device that gleams menacingly in the light. "Wait... wait... what are you...?"

 

Cold Eyes puts a hand on his forehead, forcing his head down against the cold hard table, and presses the silver thing against his neck. It burns on contact, and he screams, the shout ripped from him at the shock of it. Then something punches deep, twin points of agony blossoming on either side of his throat, and his breath wheezes past his lips in a silent cry, cut off in an instant.

 

He struggles against Cold Eyes's restraining hands, and the torturer lets him go, turning away uncaringly to put away the device. His hands scrabble at his throat, two waxy lines etched into his flesh, tender to the touch like fresh scar tissue. Exactly like. _What did you do to me?_ he tries to shout, and nothing comes out but air, uselessly rushing over his tongue.

 

Rough hands push him over on his side, and before he can react, something hot presses against the back of his neck, and he can smell his flesh sizzling. A silent cry tears at his throat, screaming as hard as he can, able to produce barely even a whisper. The burning thing pulls away, and he catches a glimpse of a metal shape on the end of a rod, glowing red-hot. A brand, some kind of symbol, and he knows without a doubt that it's seared into his skin, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

 

_Why did they mark me...?_

 

He doesn't understand, doesn't know why this is happening or where he is, or what they want with him. And now that they've stolen his voice... he can't ask.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't get much time to recover. New pointy-eared people - _Rihannsu_ , some corner of his mind whispers - come and take him, drag him to his feet, strip him of his clothes. He's dumped into a smooth cold room, naked and shivering, head still swimming from the blow it must have taken, unable to hold himself upright. Tepid water rains down on him, stinging the wounds on the back of his neck and the side of his head, and rivulets of sticky red run down his body and swirl down the drain.

 

They leave him in there until the water runs clear, then he's being dragged out and blasted with too-hot air to dry him. They don't give him his clothes back, just a flimsy wisp of cloth barely big enough to wrap around his hips, and he wheezes out a cough when they dust him with something gold and sparkly, making the curves of his musculature stand out. One of the Rihannsu grabs his chin and holds his head still while another smears something around his eyes, and yet another tugs at his hair, arranging it to their satisfaction.

 

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror as the workers put the finishing touches on him, and he startles to see himself. He hadn't known what to expect, but this just seems... wrong, somehow. His hair is as golden as the dust coating his body, his eyes shockingly blue against lines of dark paint around them, and his ears are rounded, lacking the points of those on his captors. Two shiny pink scars, freshly healed, run down either side of his neck, unconcealed by the gold dust. He turns a little, and though his hair is carefully coiffed to hide it, there's another scar carved into the side of his head, ugly and rough. But it's the brand that really hurts the most to see, a stylized bird stamped on him where his neck meets his shoulders, still red and raw.

 

Cold Eyes returns, and looks over him with satisfaction on his face. "Ahr'aei nneihv. Nnaen'e aei i temhnhaie." This time, the alien words slither into the deep places of his mind, and underneath the throbbing of his skull he thinks he understands. _It is prepared. Take it to be sold._

 

He does his best not to resist them, knowing that he'll be dragged anyway if he does. He stumbles a bit, coordination thrown off by the dull pain still drumming in his head, weakened by his injuries. He's led through a series of tunnels, emerging out into a cavernous space hollowed out of rock, crowded with people speaking thousands of tongues, a worse mishmash than the alien words that are just starting to make sense to him, their meanings tickling at the back of his head, just out of reach. A roped off section leads up to an elevated structure of some kind, and he has a strange mental flash of some kind of domesticated beasts being corralled for sale, dumb beasts led to the slaughter.

 

He's left in a line of prisoners, all different species, dusted up and branded just like him, standing behind a heavy green curtain, guarded by armed men. One by one, each captive steps through to the other side, met by the murmuring of alien tongues and an almost rhythmic droning voice from a loudspeaker.

 

_This is an auction._

 

He looks down at himself, and there's only one conclusion he can draw from his scattered thoughts. _We're the merchandise._

 

Part of him is screaming to run, to get the hell out of here and go... where?

 

There's nowhere to go.


	4. Chapter 4

"We'll never find a decent _paectum_ on this rock, _Riov_."

 

Tafv Merrok peers over the rim of his ale at his bodyguard, and raises a sharpened eyebrow. The constant noise of hundreds of people surround them like a cocoon, punctuated by the distant shouts of the slave auction being held on the other side of the hollowed out asteroid. Across the small table is a massive musclebound Orion, bare arms and chest revealing a multitude of scars gained in combat, cradling his own frothy mug between meaty hands.

 

"We've been here three weeks," the Orion continues. "I know you hate to call in favors, but maybe we should give the Broker a call."

 

Tafv's handsome Romulan features twist in a grimace. "We're not desperate yet, Desarr-Ka. We can make it to the next outpost with our engines in this state; perhaps we'll have better luck there. Finish your drink and we'll head out."

 

Desarr-Ka grunts, and lifts the mug to his lips, but he doesn't take a sip. His dark eyes are fixed on the slave auction, and Tafv doesn't have to ask why. The Orion's fingers grip the handle of the mug tightly enough to crack the material as the ex-gladiator watches slave after slave step up to be sold. Men, women, even children, from all sorts of species. There's a murmur of interest from the crowd as a Terran steps up to the stage.

 

Tafv isn't an expert on Terran physiology and behavior or anything, but something doesn't seem right about the way the young human holds himself. Almost hunched over, favoring one side of his body, and the interested sounds from the crowd become disappointed as one prospective buyer steps up to examine the merchandise, gesturing angrily at some unseen fault on the slave's head.

 

"Damaged goods?" he murmurs to Desarr-Ka.

 

"It appears so," the Orion mutters in return, and he sets down his mug, pulling himself to his feet.

 

Tafv stands up in a flash, putting a hand on his bodyguard's arm. "You're not _honestly_ thinking of buying him. After what happened to you...?"

 

The big Orion shakes off his grip, walking steadily towards the auction stage. "He'll be dirt cheap, and if no one buys him, that's a death sentence. We might be able to find a use for him."

 

"For a pleasure slave?" Tafv asks skeptically, but Desarr-Ka is already muscling his way through the crowd, and all he can do is follow in his wake.

 

By the time he makes it to the stage, the auctioneer is already shoving the Terran to his knees at Desarr-Ka's feet. Up close, Tafv can see why they're selling this one at such a steep discount. There's a dazed look in his eye, and a poorly concealed wound interrupting the flow of his golden hair. "Good job, 'Ka," he says dryly, "you wasted three whole talons on a brain-damaged _hevam_."

 

The big Orion doesn't look like he cares much, though. He holds out a hand to the Terran, whose startlingly blue eyes watch him warily, silence-marks on his throat still fresh and new. "Come on, _ngosazhecu_ ," Desarr-Ka says encouragingly. "You don't want to stay here, do you?"

 

The Terran's eyes widen slightly, and though he hesitates, he reaches out to grasp Desarr-Ka's hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. The slave is wearing nearly nothing, just enough to cover his modesty, but his muscles are well maintained underneath the ridiculous powder the slavedealers use to make their goods look more appealing.

 

"I can't believe this," Tafv mutters to himself, and lifts his comm unit to his lips. "Tafv to _Shadowbird_. Arizhel, we're bringing a... guest onboard, who's in need of a medical exam."

 

There's an angry curse from the comm. " _If I have to patch up one more of your strays, HoD..._ "

 

"It's not mine this time, actually, it's 'Ka's." He allows himself a tight smile as Arizhel cuts off the comm line with another growled oath, no doubt throwing her tools across the ship. Never has he ever met a medic so unhappy to do her job, but then again, she _is_ a Klingon.

 

Brain-damaged or not, the Terran is quick to understand he's expected to follow them, and despite being slightly unsteady on his bare feet he seems eager to get the hell away from the slave auction. Not that Tafv can blame him for that. With silence-marks that new, and a slave brand that raw, he must either be a new capture or recently repurposed.

 

"I'm Desarr-Ka," the Orion introduces himself, and the Terran's head snaps up, paying closer attention than his head injury would indicate was likely. "I'm the first mate of the _Shadowbird_ , and this is my captain, Tafv Merrok."

 

The Terran's blue eyes dart towards the Romulan, nervousness and fear painted across that expressive human face. His lips move soundlessly, and he frowns, lifting a trembling hand to trace his silence-marks. _Very recent indeed._

 

"Do you have a name?" Tafv asks. There's no way the slave will be able to tell them what it _is_ , at this point, but they can't keep calling him 'Terran.' It's like calling a pet by the name of its species, unimaginative and dull.

 

The slave hesitates, and finally shrugs. Tafv has heard of head injuries causing confusion and loss of identity, which might explain why the slavedealers chose to cut their losses and market him as a voiceless bedwarmer. Pleasure slaves... pah! The most useless waste of a sentient being that Tafv has ever heard of.

 

"Then you will answer to 'Jarok'," Desarr-Ka tells him. The Terran's brow furrows, but he nods slowly, accepting the name. What choice does he have?

 

It's a relatively short walk to the docking bay, and Tafv smiles at the sight of his ship. Barely bigger than a military bird-of-prey, the _Shadowbird_ is a sleek little flitter, patched a thousand times until she's completely unique, bearing parts from dozens of models of ship. Her warp nacelles don't match and her paint job is as patchy as her interior, but she's _his_ , and he confidently strides up the open ramp into her belly.

 

The slave hesitates only a moment at the bottom of the ramp before following them inside. He stops in the middle of the cargo bay, and cranes his neck back to look around before he winces, the motion pulling at his brand. Jarok turns in a slow circle, curiously taking in his new surroundings.

 

Arizhel is waiting, her sharp teeth bared unhappily as she watches the Terran gawk. " _This_ is your guest?" she spits at Tafv. "A _toy'wI'a_?"

 

"He's cute," another voice announces, warm and friendly. Tafv looks up to see Tytha leaning on the railing of the upper level, smiling down at them. The Bolian woman is smudged with grease, and wipes her hands on an already filthy rag.

 

"Any luck with the engines?" Tafv calls up to her.

 

"I tried, but I can't do a thing with it," she answers, cheerful as she always is. "I know comms, not engines, _Riov_." She comes down the stairs, draping the rag across her shoulder, and smiles at the Terran. "Didn't know we were having guests or I would've cooked something nice. He looks hungry."

 

Jarok manages a shy smile, which quickly drops as Arizhel grabs his arm and drags him to a seat on a cargo crate. "Sit still, _tera'ngan_ ," the Klingon growls, waving a tricorder over him and poking at it with sharp fingernails. Her forehead ridges furrow more deeply than usual, and she bares her teeth unhappily. "I'm not an expert in Terran anatomy, _HoD_. If I'm reading this right, he's got a crack in the bone of his left forearm, and damage to that weak human skull of his. I can fix the bones but his _QoghIj_ is pathetically delicate." She spits on the floor contemptuously. "I don't see why we need him."

 

"We don't," Desarr-Ka says bluntly, looming over her, "but he's mine, bought and paid for. _Riov_ says he can stay, so you just make sure he's as healthy as you can get him, got that?"

 

Arizhel glares up at him. " _HIja_ ," she growls in assent.

 

Tafv shakes his head in mild disbelief. _Slaves onboard my ship. What's next?_  "Get everything stowed. We lift off in ten. Next stop, Khazara colony."


	5. Chapter 5

" _I'm sorry, Commander Spock, but I can't authorize that._ "

 

Rarely has Spock found a situation so taxing that his emotional control is affected, but the arms of the command chair creak under his fingers as he tightens his grasp, and he calls on decades of Vulcan training to maintain his composure. It is a difficult task. "Admiral Nogura, perhaps I did not articulate the situation clearly enough. Captain Kirk has been captured by forces unknown, likely for sale on the Romulan slave market. As the captain is in possession of a great deal of classified information, it would be to Starfleet's extreme detriment if he is not rescued."

 

At his side, Doctor McCoy is visibly enraged, barely restraining himself from shouting at the admiral on the viewscreen. Part of Spock regrets that allowing him to do so would be counterproductive, because he also wishes to raise his voice and express his anger.

 

" _I understand that, commander,_ " Nogura says, and while Spock is not an expert in interpreting human emotional displays, to his ear it sounds condescending. " _But I cannot and will not authorize the_ Enterprise _to cross the Neutral Zone and violate the treaty, particularly when you have no idea where to start looking. Even if you knew where he was being held, crossing the Zone is_ still _an act of war._ " The admiral levels a look at Spock that is probably meant to be compassionate. " _I understand that Captain Kirk is a personal friend of yours. He's a hero of Earth and the Federation, and I don't want to see him in enemy hands any more than you do. But he's just one man._ "

 

"Just one man?" McCoy sputters, nearly speechless with fury.

 

" _The Romulans may yet hold him for ransom,_ " the admiral continues, as if the doctor hadn't said anything. " _We are holding our fair share of their people as political prisoners, after all. Intelligence suggests that they may offer him in exchange for the release of their own people, in which case we will be willing to consider a trade. Until then, any action on your part to rescue him could easily jeopardize his chances for a safe return. Commander Spock, I am ordering you to keep the_ Enterprise _out of the Romulan Neutral Zone under penalty of court martial._ "

 

At the moment, he sees no alternative but to agree. Logic is clearly not going to change Nogura's decision. "Understood, admiral," Spock says, his tone suitably flat and emotionless to pass muster.

 

McCoy turns toward him the moment the viewscreen blinks off. "You aren't _seriously_ going to follow that order."

 

Spock swivels the command chair to face McCoy, and illogically wishes he could tell the doctor that of course he won't. But he cannot. "I am a Starfleet officer. I am bound by oath, and must obey an order given by a superior officer." McCoy looks like he's ready to begin shouting, so Spock continues before he can do so. "I do not intend to abandon the captain, doctor."

 

"So what are we going to do?" Uhura asks, her expressive face displaying her worry. "We can't just leave him in Romulan hands. If their government's got him, he's probably already being tortured."

 

Spock steeples his fingers, trying to gather his fractured calm. _This is not the first time the captain has been in danger. We will do as we have always done. We will retrieve him when possible, and return him to the_ Enterprise _._

 

The commander turns towards the bridge crew, and raises his voice slightly to be heard by all. "We shall obey the admiral's order to the letter. At no time will the _Enterprise_ make any attempt to cross the Neutral Zone. However, Lieutenant Uhura, please continue to search for any signals mentioning or alluding to the captain in any capacity. If the Romulan government has him, they are bound to communicate this in some capacity, even if only through internal channels. We also have made allies in many sectors during this five-year mission; now we must contact any and all potentially useful sources of information on Captain Kirk's location and condition. Once that is determined, we will evaluate his circumstances and convene a meeting to discuss the possibility of rescue."

 

McCoy grimaces, but he doesn't protest. "Knew I should've tagged the bastard the last time he went missing on us."

 

"But commander, once we do know where the captain is being held, how are we supposed to rescue him?" Sulu asks, brow furrowed in concern. "We're under orders not to cross the Neutral Zone."

 

Spock raises an eyebrow. "The admiral specified that the _Enterprise_ is restricted from crossing the Neutral Zone. He made no mention of her personnel. If such a rescue is to be attempted, we will also require access to a warp-capable vessel, preferably one that is not Starfleet in origin."

 

"Wery sneaky, sir," Chekov murmurs in admiration.

 

But Uhura is frowning, looking contemplative. "Spock, you said 'if' the Romulan government has him. You think it's possible someone could outbid them?"

 

"Perhaps, but that is not the most likely scenario." Spock hesitates, aware that his human shipmates may find this conversation disturbing. "It is entirely possible that his abductor did not recognize the captain for who he is. The chief of police on Ek Chuaj stated that the captain was not the only one to be taken in this fashion, and that the others were considered attractive examples of their species."

 

"A famous face like his and you think he wasn't _recognized_?" McCoy asks, his voice full of disbelief. "Not that I disagree that he might be taken just because he's a handsome son of a bitch, but come on, Spock."

 

But Uhura nods, schooling her features well to hide her disgust at the logical conclusion to this line of thought. "It's not that hard to believe. Humans aren't unique in often being unable to tell members of other species apart. We're used to distinguishing similar facial features to our own because we see them all the time, so we have lots of practice at it. But if you were in a room full of Horta, or Saurians, would you be able to pick one out of a lineup?"

 

Sulu appears to be experiencing nausea as a result of the subject of conversation. "So they might've taken the captain just because his sex appeal would fetch a high price."

 

"Indeed." If asked, Spock would likewise admit to discomfort with the idea, but it cannot be dismissed as a possibility. "If the Romulan government has him, we will have to learn about it through their broadcasts. If he is in the custody of another party, it is conceivable that the captain may have the opportunity to contact us covertly himself. Neither situation is preferable, but we must be alert to all conceivable scenarios."

 

"Not sure which one I'd prefer either," McCoy mutters, wringing his hands. "Goddammit Jim..."

 

"There is little we can do at this immediate point in time," Spock says, no matter how much he desires that this was not so. "For now, please continue performing your duties to the best of your ability. The captain will require us to be at peak efficiency when he returns to us."

 

There's a tense silence on the bridge as the crew return to their tasks, and Spock sits uneasily in the center chair. Never before has it felt so wrong to take command into his own hands, but there is little else that he can do until there is more information available.

 

Helplessness truly is the most discomforting emotion to experience.


	6. Chapter 6

The _Shadowbird_ 's engines creak and groan as the small ship travels through warp on autpilot, shuddering through the deckplates. It's an eerie sound, constantly keeping him on edge, and even though he doesn't know _why_ it sounds wrong, it does.

 

Jarok sits in a small alcove against the wall of the tiny crew quarters, and rubs his wrist slowly as he thinks, still feeling the phantom ache after the bone was knitted back together. The name doesn't sit entirely well with him, but it's _close_ , and he doesn't know what should replace it. _Not that I'd be able to tell them anyway._

 

It's not what he expected. Not that he really knows what he _should_ have expected, either. But his presentation to the buyers made it clear even to his muddled brain that he was being sold for his body alone, for some unsavory purpose he can't quite remember. And he'd felt true fear when he saw his buyer, a giant of a man with anger in his eyes, dreading what must be coming next.

 

But the anger wasn't for him.

 

His borrowed clothes sag on a body that's smaller than the one they were made for, and he's constantly pulling the waist of the pants back up, but it's miles better than the useless strip of fabric he came onboard wearing. Desarr-Ka was quick to throw them at him, once the lady with the weird forehead - the Klingon, that's right - finished with him. And then the blue woman brought him a bowl of broth, oddly flavored and unfamiliar, but warm and soothing against the heavy ache in his throat.

 

_I wish I could thank them._

 

The whole ship is quiet, save for the rattling of the engines, and the lights are dim as the crew sleep, soft snores emanating from the bunks. Arizhel sleeps on her back with a knife clenched in her fists, a stark contrast to the blue lady - Tytha - who lies curled up on her side, smiling even as she dreams. The captain, Tafv, stretches out in a position that doesn't look remotely comfortable, and Desarr-Ka just lies like a rock, snoring the loudest out of anybody.

 

There's no bunk for himself.

 

Jarok huddles on the floor with a thin blanket, grateful that at least the ship isn't that cold. It's uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and he shuffles himself over a bit, trying to find a position that doesn't make his back ache. But no matter how he sits, his head rests against the wall, and the _wrong wrong wrong_ rattling of the engines reverberates through his skull, aggravating the headache that still hasn't faded away.

 

Sleep is impossible.

 

He huffs out a breath of annoyance, the loudest sound he can manage, and throws off the blanket, getting to his feet. He silently slips out of the crew quarters, following the source of the awful noise down to the engine room. He saw it briefly earlier, when Desarr-Ka gave him the tour, but he hadn't looked at it in any kind of depth.

 

Now, without strangers looming over him and asking him things he can't answer, he has all the time he wants to explore. The systems look oddly familiar, some part of him recognizing them even if he can't articulate how or why, and he follows the mechanical groaning until he finds the source, hidden underneath a panel near the base of the port nacelle.

 

Jarok taps a finger against his lips, thinking, and goes to find where they keep their toolbox on this boat.

 

* * *

 

Tafv wakes in the darkness, initially unsure of what dragged him from his sleep. The ship is quiet around him, _Shadowbird_ rumbling quietly under warp, and he can hear the comforting sounds of his crew breathing around him.

 

_Something is missing._

 

He frowns and sits up, casting his gaze around the room in the low light. Nothing seems amiss, until he notices that the awful creaking from the damaged engines is gone, replaced only with the smooth resonance of working machinery.

 

But that's not the only thing that's missing. The extra blanket from Desarr-Ka's bunk is crumpled and discarded in the corner, with no sign of the person it should be wrapped around. _The slave. Where is he?_

 

Tafv leaps to his feet, and quickly pads down to the engine room. _If that Terran has compromised my ship..._

 

The lights in the engine room are all on, and he can see the bare feet of the slave sticking out from underneath one of the consoles, his torso swallowed up by the machinery. "Hey!" Tafv calls out, and there's a sudden bang. Jarok wriggles out from under the console, rubbing his head, and his blue eyes widen when he sees who's standing over him. "What do you think you're doing?" Tafv demands, momentarily forgetting that the slave can't answer him.

 

Jarok looks frustrated, mouth moving silently to form words that Tafv doesn't recognize, and he throws his arm wide to indicate the engine room, waving a spanner.

 

Tafv purses his lips, reminding himself not to be angry with the poor _hevam_. It's not his choice that he can't speak, and besides... the Terran oddly looks like he knows what he's doing, some of the haze lifted from those impossibly blue eyes. "Yes, I can see that you're messing around with _my_ ship."

 

Jarok gets to his feet and beckons Tafv over to an open panel in the wall, gesturing for him to look inside. The Romulan is no tech, but even he can tell that there's something there that wasn't before, a jury-rigged mess of spare parts replacing a burnt-out power coupling and stabilizer. Tafv raises an eyebrow and looks at the slave, impressed despite himself. "You came up with this?"

 

The Terran nods, but he looks uncertain, following it up with a shrug and a vague wave towards the scarred side of his head. _Of course._ "And you're sure it won't blow up under the stress?" Tafv asks, and Jarok fixes him with a withering look, apparently insulted by the insinuation, before immediately looking contrite. Probably expecting to be punished for his rudeness, despite being completely without voice.

 

"Hmm." Tafv regards the slave with a new eye. _Perhaps I've underestimated him._ After all, it's not as if Jarok was always a pleasure slave. There's no telling what he did before he was taken, or what other skills he might have to surprise them with. With the worst of the damage healed, he carries himself a little better, almost as a warrior would, sure on his feet.

 

The sound of footsteps comes down the corridor, and Desarr-Ka emerges into the engine room, rubbing a meaty hand over his eyes to scrub the sleepiness away. " _Riov_ , what's going on?" the big Orion asks, throwing a questioning look when he notices the captain isn't alone.

 

Tafv gives him a tight smile. "'Ka, I may owe you an apology. It seems you found us a _paectum_ after all, and at only three talons spent, that's one hell of a bargain."

 

Jarok looks confused, nervously twisting the spanner in his hands, gaze darting between the two of them like he is waiting for something to happen. Desarr-Ka grins at him and slaps him on the back, nearly knocking the Terran off his feet. "Congratulations, Jarok, you've got a _real_ job. Knew you'd be useful for something."

 

The Terran still looks a bit bewildered, but he smiles back automatically. Tafv grunts, and starts heading back towards his bunk. "Don't stay up all night, _aehval_. You either, 'Ka. I need you refreshed and ready to do business when we touch down tomorrow."

 

Desarr-Ka throws him a salute, and pokes Jarok's shoulder. "Come on, _ngosazhecu_ , let's see what else you've got."


	7. Chapter 7

Khazara colony is nothing like the other place, that cramped dark shell where his life was sold away for a pittance. Jarok can't stop himself from rubbernecking, trying to take in all the sights and sounds and smells of the outpost. There are wide open skies, stained deep purple under an oddly dim star. A sprawling community reaches out across hilly terrain, buildings made of stone and metal, a strange mix of primitive and advanced technology. And while most traffic is pedestrian, there are a few animal-drawn vehicles, as well as more advanced hovercars flitting by overhead.

 

He has to watch his step as he follows Desarr-Ka into an alien bazaar, not as crowded as the auctionhouse, but busy nonetheless. Most of the inhabitants seem to be Rihannsu, like the captain is, and several of them openly stare at the hulking Orion and his Terran slave.

 

"Our first stop will be to buy you some proper clothing," Desarr-Ka tells him, looking significantly down at Jarok's bare feet. "I'll pay for the basics, but if you want anything else, you take it out of your cut on our next job. Fair?"

 

Jarok nods in agreement. He doesn't like the idea of taking anything for free, which is at odds with the fact that he himself isn't exactly his own man at the moment. But either way, boots sound great, and he makes a face as he barely dodges stepping in a pile of something he'd rather not think about. _Case in point._

 

Desarr-Ka must have been here before, because he leads Jarok unerringly to a little clothing shop at the midpoint of the bazaar. The shopkeeper turns up her nose at them like she's smelling something bad, but she takes his measurements and produces the bare minimum of clothing for him. Bland, boring, made of extremely cheap and thin material, almost entirely in black. But it's still clothes made to fit, and Jarok changes into them gladly, wiggling his toes inside the boots. _Way better than bare feet._

 

The big Orion digs into his pocket to pay for the clothes, and Jarok rubs the back of his neck as he looks around, wincing at the rawness of the brand under his fingers. _God, I wish there was a way to hide this._ It's like a spotlight on him, a big flashing label saying SLAVE. Which is the point, he supposes.

 

A strip of gold-colored fabric catches his eye, some kind of scarf, and he hesitates before tapping Desarr-Ka on the arm. "What?" the Orion asks, turning with a frown, which deepens when he sees what Jarok is pointing at. "That's not necessary. What do you want it for?"

 

Jarok hates not having his voice. How can he even explain? His cheeks burn under the Orion's scrutiny, and all he can do is lower his head and turn so Desarr-Ka can see his hand clamped over the hated brand. _Please. Let me cover it._

 

"Oh." The Orion considers it, and turns back to the shopkeeper. "How much?" he asks, jerking his head towards the scarf.

 

"Five talons," she says, which must be a lot for a scarf because Desarr-Ka's face screws up unpleasantly. But he hands over the money, and gives the cloth to Jarok, who quickly wraps it around his neck, positioning it to hide the brand and most of the scars on his throat. It's a small, simple thing, but it makes a world of difference.

 

"That's it," Desarr-Ka tells him, and gestures for him to follow. "When we get paid, you owe me."

 

That sounds fair enough, so he nods again, a bit frustrated that it's all he can do most of the time. Nod, shake his head, shrug his shoulders, play twenty questions until someone gets it right. But his inability to speak, or make any sound at all, doesn't mean he lacks the _desire_ to do so, and he taps the Orion's arm again to get his attention, pointing at the scarf with a questioning look.

 

Surprisingly, he doesn't need to do much to be understood, in this case. "I was once where you are, or close enough," Desarr-Ka says simply, and Jarok's eyes go straight to the back of the Orion's neck. There's a geometric tattoo covering most of his neck and upper back, but now that Jarok is looking, he can see a raised area hidden under the ink, not clear enough to tell the shape. But it's enough to get the picture.

 

He doesn't know how to say that he's sorry, but Desarr-Ka doesn't seem to expect that either. And why would he? Jarok is just his slave, not his friend.

 

He silently trails after the Orion, weaving through the crowd, and it occurs to him that this could be a good opportunity to run, to disappear amongst the aliens. But if he does that... what then? He can't pass himself off as Rihannsu, and he hasn't seen any others of his kind here. And the part where he can't speak would probably be suspicious at best, to say nothing of what might happen when his brand is inevitably discovered.

 

He doesn't even know where he would go, if he had the choice. He doesn't remember any other worlds but the two he's seen already.

 

And Desarr-Ka hasn't been a bad master so far, anyway.

 

So he sticks close to the Orion's heels, unable to see any other viable option. _It could be worse._ He doesn't know how, exactly, but something inside him shivers when he remembers what it felt like to stand on the auction stage and see countless alien faces leering at his nearly naked body, before they knew he was damaged.

 

Desarr-Ka wanders from business to business, moving with a purpose, each destination apparently familiar to him like this is a regular port of call for the _Shadowbird_. Money exchanges hands several times as he orders shipments of fresh food and equipment to be sent to their dock at the landside spaceport, and occasionally the Orion hands off smaller items to Jarok to be carried, leaving his own hands free.

 

It's an oddly mundane use for a slave, one that he doesn't think he was intended for, but he finds he doesn't mind all that much. It feels less like he's mooching off their hospitality, with something to do to help. Like the engine room.

 

He honestly doesn't know how he knew to fix it. He just looked at the problem and let his hands do the work, some vague memory of watching a similar repair tickling the back of his mind, letting the smooth rumbling of the warp engines ease him into an almost meditative state. Jarok may not know much about himself, but he's learned that he likes machines and working with his hands. And if he's found his use as an engineer instead of... whatever he was sold to be... he's just fine with that.

 

He has an entire armful of equipment by the time Desarr-Ka finally leads them back to the ship, and Tafv meets them at the cargo bay ramp, flashing a grin. "Good news. Found a customer who needs a shipment of ale smuggled across the Neutral Zone. Should be a nice, easy run, and the pay's decent." His grin falters a little when his gaze falls on Jarok, like he's just remembered that the slave exists. "You don't get a full share, not yet anyway. But prove to me that last night wasn't a lucky guess and we'll see."

 

Well, it's not like he expected to be a full member of the crew anyway. And the captain - _Riov_? - has made no secret of the fact that he doesn't like a slave being onboard. _I didn't exactly want to be here either, captain. It's just better than the alternative. I think._

 

So he just nods, and helps Desarr-Ka put away his purchases, loading up the _Shadowbird_ and prepping her to fly.


	8. Chapter 8

Something doesn't seem right.

 

There's nothing badly wrong with the ship herself. He's made sure of that, exploring the length of the _Shadowbird_ to familiarize himself with her layout, now that he's expected to help maintain her function. He found some loose connections, worn-out parts, and enough old gritty grease to gum up some of the works. But she's running well enough for the time being, humming smoothly as the _Shadowbird_ warps along.

 

No, the problem is with the crew.

 

Jarok doesn't understand why, but there's a weird tension in the air. Even as Tafv and Desarr-Ka smile and trade private jokes back and forth, there's almost a wariness about them, jumping at every bleep from the nav console up in the cockpit, and Arizhel spends hours sharpening her knives in the small common area, growling under her breath. Only Tytha doesn't seem bothered, humming to herself as she putters around in the tiny galley, and she smiles warmly at him when he wanders in, sniffing curiously at the smells of her cooking.

 

"Hey there," she says, waving him towards a nearby chair. "Hungry? The meal won't be ready for another _tlhojur_ , I'm afraid."

 

He gives her a small smile and slides into the seat, watching her work. Her hands move almost on their own accord, dicing unfamiliar vegetables and sprinkling seasonings onto sizzling bits of meat, and he wants to ask so many questions. What she's making, whether being the cook is her official job, how she came to be crew on the _Shadowbird_. But most importantly... what exactly is making everybody tense but her.

 

Having no voice is one _hell_ of an obstacle.

 

Not enough to make him stop trying, though. He can't stand to just sit by and observe passively, shut out from social interaction. It's not in his nature, for whatever reason. He's figured out that much about himself.

 

Jarok waits until she's glancing his direction, then waves a little to get her attention, and gives her a questioning look, pointing towards Arizhel on the other side of the access hatch, then towards the cockpit in the other direction. Tytha looks puzzled, though she doesn't lose the smile. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

 

Of course she doesn't. He tries not to sigh, and tries again, this time clenching his fists in front of him and shaking them like someone trembling in fear, or jumping at sudden noises. A spark of understanding lights up in her eyes. "Why are they nervous?"

 

He nods, raising his eyebrows. They're just shipping cargo, why would that make the captain jumpy?

 

She continues working, but turns slightly in his direction, making eye contact a little more often. "Do you know what the Neutral Zone is?" she asks, and politely doesn't look surprised or disdainful when he shakes his head. "It's a region of space that separates us from the United Federation of Planets. No one's supposed to cross it, and Romulan ale's illegal on their side."

 

_Illegal? Well, that'd explain it._ He doesn't have any idea what kind of punishment this sort of thing might carry, but if they don't want to get caught, it must be rather unpleasant. He nods in understanding, and gives her what he hopes is an encouraging look, wanting to know more. This sounds almost familiar, almost... but... he can't remember. It's right on the tip of his tongue, refusing to go any farther, mute as the rest of him.

 

"There's good money in this sort of work," Tytha says, flashing him a grin, free of the stress that's plaguing the rest of the crew. "People always want something they can't get at home, so we ship it from here to there. Ale, fresh produce, drugs, even livestock sometimes."

 

Livestock... again, that mental image of dumb beasts being corralled flashes through his mind. Big horned creatures... cows? Jarok frowns, and gestures towards the brand on the back of his neck, now concealed by his scarf. But she knows it's there.

 

She shakes her head immediately. "No, no people, just animals. _Riov_ doesn't like slaves onboard."

 

_Yeah, I noticed._ He looks down at his hands, and he can't quite put his finger on why that bothers him so much. He's still a person, isn't he? And Desarr-Ka was a slave once, but he and Tafv seem like old friends, and the captain doesn't seem to care about having _him_ onboard.

 

Gentle blue hands cover his, and he looks up to see Tytha kneeling in front of him, smiling at him. "It's not personal, _aehval_. Slavery is a dishonorable practice, and Tafv has never liked it. He doesn't hate the _slaves_."

 

Oh, well that's... unexpected. But... better? He returns the smile uncertainly, and gives her a small nod.

 

But there's that word again, _aehval_ , and even though he can understand most of what they say, he doesn't know all of it. And they've used that word to address him several times. Jarok looks up at her uncertainly, trying to figure out how he can ask her. He hesitates, then reaches out toward her lips, not quite touching, before gesturing to himself.

 

"You want me to keep talking?" she guesses.

 

He shakes his head, trying not to be frustrated with his condition. _There has to be an easier way to communicate than this._ He tries again, this time trying to mouth the word she used, silently exaggerating the syllables.

 

"Oh!" There's a little sparkle in Tytha's eye when she finally gets it, and she smiles at him. "It's the Rihan word for _ngosazhecu_." That doesn't clear up _anything_ , and he gives her a look of disbelief, prompting a giggle from her. " _That_ is the Orion word for ' _little_ _voice_ ,'" she says, pronouncing the last two words carefully, like they're unfamiliar on her tongue. But it's familiar to _him_ , not the language the crew has been speaking, but the one he hears in his own thoughts.

 

_Little voice? Is that supposed to be an insult, or...?_

 

But he doesn't have time to try to ask, because there's a sudden warbling alarm echoing through the straight corridor that leads to the cockpit, and Arizhel leaps to her feet, quickly heading for the dorsal turret. Tytha swats a button, placing the cooking food in a stasis field - presumably to keep it from catching fire while unattended - and flashes a quick grin at Jarok. "You'd better get to the engine room. We might need your help. That's a proximity alarm."

 

_Proximity? To what?_

 

But he can't ask, and she disappears down the corridor towards the bow of the ship, leaving him no choice but to head to the engine room. The overhead comm crackles as Tafv's voice broadcasts, tight with tension. " _There's a Federation ship on an intercept course. Three_ stei _until they're on top of us._ "

 

He has no idea how long that is, but it doesn't matter. What he understands is that they need to go faster. Somehow.

 

Jarok doesn't know what to do. But apparently, his hands know just the thing.

 

He tears into one of the wall panels and pulls out a mass of wires, breaking connections and making new ones, shoving in a power relay that wasn't meant to go there. _I saw something like this once... there was a man with a... red shirt?_ And he remembers the man speaking, but he can only recall a strangely accented gibberish, and he doesn't know if that's because of the black hole where most of his memories must have been, or if the man was really that unintelligible the first time around.

 

But apparently it doesn't matter if he understands what exactly he's doing or not. The engines spool up, humming loudly, and the inertial dampeners strain to keep up with the sudden increase in speed. There's a loud whoop from the far end of the open corridor, an exclamation in some alien tongue, and Jarok hurries to the console to adjust the settings, opening up the throttle.

 

The overhead comm crackles again, and Tafv's voice sounds a hell of a lot less stressed. " _We lost them! Stand down, Arizhel. Maybe you'll get to shoot at something next time._ "

 

A loud Klingon curse echoes through the ship, followed by the clanging of boots on metal as Arizhel gets out of the turret, grumbling under her breath.

 

Desarr-Ka appears in the engine room in short order, a grin on his face, and he gives Jarok a hearty slap on the back. "I don't know what you did, but we got enough of a lead on that ship to get out of their sensor range and change course. You kept us all out of a very unpleasant stay in a Federation prison today. Great job."

 

He smiles at the praise, glad that he's been able to help. His head is pounding a bit from the adrenaline, a dull ache in the side of his skull, but it doesn't diminish his satisfaction one bit. He's more than just a slave, and he'll prove it as many times as he has to.

 

* * *

 

The strange little ship disappears from sensors in a matter of moments, and by the time they increase speed to follow, it's long gone.

 

"We lost them, sir."

 

"Who do you think they were? That ship looked Romulan to me."

 

"Likely. Their vector indicated their point of origin was on the other side of the Neutral Zone." On the bridge of the _Enterprise_ , Spock leans back in the command chair and regards the viewscreen with his usual Vulcan stoicism. "Most likely smugglers of some sort. Lieutenant Uhura, please update Federation law enforcement with the vessel's sensor signature."

 

All things considered, it is extremely low priority. After all, it isn't Starfleet's job to enforce interstellar law at the expense of their mission. And a few black market goods are not more important than finding and retrieving the captain.

 

"Resume course and heading," Spock orders, turning his focus back to their duty, the strange little ship already forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

It's a bit awkward at first, unsure how he fits in, a slave among freemen. But as the days pass, and Jarok becomes more familiar with his shipmates and his responsibilities, things slowly start to settle into some standard of normal. Not that he can remember anything else to compare it to.

 

He sleeps on the floor of the crew quarters for two weeks before he saves enough of his miniscule earnings to solve that problem, and the look on Tafv's face is worth every talon when he walks into the engine room and sees the hammock strung up between the starboard gravity stabilizer and the life support console. It's not high class accommodations, but the gentle rumbling of the engines is better than a lullaby, and if something starts to go wrong in the night, he'll know that much sooner. Plus, he's already at his post, so it's efficient to boot.

 

It's strange, though, to look around the _Shadowbird_ and recognize the small marks of his own presence, the signs of someone who actually lives there, not just a stranger staying in someone else's house. His makeshift sleeping arrangements, a small crate of clothing shoved into a corner, even the storage unit in the galley, which Tytha now stocks with a bitter, energizing drink he took a liking to the last time they were in port, something Arizhel calls _raktajino_. He doesn't have much, especially compared to the others, but it's more than he started with.

 

It's sort of starting to feel like home. A home he can't leave, but... where would he go?

 

They've set down on Terix II for the night, an outpost near Klingon territory, and apparently a hotbed for the kind of work the _Shadowbird_ tends to take on. It's late when they land, so Tafv decides they'll wait until morning to unload their cargo and take on a new shipment, giving everyone the chance to get some shuteye first.

 

The ship is a lot quieter in port, and Jarok dozes restlessly, missing the comforting drone of the engines and the gentle sway of the ship when she's underway.

 

It's the only reason he's awake to hear the sounds of someone breaking into the airlock.

 

His eyes fly open at the sound of the magnetic locks being forced open, and he swiftly rolls out of his hammock, the little hairs in the back of his neck standing up, gripped by a wariness that he can't explain or describe. His bare feet pad silently across the deck, and he presses himself against the wall, listening hard. Someone's entering at the airlock, between the engine room and crew quarters, a couple of pairs of boots trying to walk as quietly as possible. Whoever they are, Jarok sincerely doubts their purpose here is benign.

 

_And they're between me and the others._

 

He can't alert his shipmates, can't get to them without running straight into the intruders. And he can't raise the alarm because he can't shout a warning, even if it would draw attention to himself.

 

He doesn't have any weapons, either. Slaves aren't supposed to be armed, and an engineer shouldn't need to carry a disrupter pistol, so he hasn't been trusted with one. He doesn't have so much as a knife.

 

_Guess I'll have to make the best of what I have._

 

Jarok has come to know the engine room like the back of his hand, over the last few weeks - better than, actually. There are all sorts of alcoves and hidey-holes, shadowed places where someone could hide away, and wait for the intruders to leave.

 

Or to ambush them.

 

He grabs a spanner and takes up position near the doorway, listening to the footsteps drawing closer to the crew quarters, and he feels a flash of worry for his shipmates. They're good people, he thinks, and he doesn't want to see any of them hurt. Before he can second-guess himself, he hurls the spanner across the engine room.

 

The tool hits the opposite wall with a loud clang, and there's a startled noise from the corridor as the intruders move to investigate. Two humanoids cautiously step inside the engine room, holding disruptor pistols at the ready. A green woman, maybe an Orion like Desarr-Ka, and a male of some species he doesn't recognize, covered with brown and black fur.

 

He won't get a better chance.

 

Jarok surges from his hiding place and sucker punches the furry intruder in the back of his head, sending him sprawling, disrupter clattering against the deck, out of reach. He wraps his arms around the neck of the Orion, yanking her backward and applying pressure, some part of him knowing just how hard to squeeze to choke her out without killing her.

 

She slumps in his arms, unconscious, just as the other intruder leaps to his feet and lunges at him with a snarl of frustration, and there's a sudden sharp twist in his back as the furry one buries a set of sharp claws next to his spine. His mouth opens in a silent cry, unable to even scream.

 

There's a wet slicing sound from behind him, and suddenly the claws are being pulled free of him, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor. He twists around, meeting the enraged eyes of Arizhel, holding a goddamn enormous curved blade of some kind, dripping with blue blood. The same blood that's draining out of both halves of the furry intruder, lying almost entirely separate on the deck.

 

She bares her teeth, simultaneously terrifying and yet the happiest he's ever seen her. "Any more of them, _ghoghHom_?"

 

He waves towards the unconscious Orion woman, and Arizhel grins savagely, planting her foot on the intruder and shoving her hard, rolling her over onto her back. "Good work."

 

"What in the name of the Elements is going on here?"

 

Tafv looks furious, standing shirtless in the entryway to the corridor, and he glares at the bodies lying around the _Shadowbird_ 's engine room. His anger gives way to a flicker of concern when he sees Jarok, red blood soaking through his shirt and starting to drip onto the floor.

 

"He'll be fine, _HoD_ ," Arizhel says, wiping her blade clean on her sleeve before retrieving her medkit. "Didn't hit anything vital. He'll have an interesting scar."

 

"Rest of the ship's clear, _Riov_ ," Desarr-Ka reports, entering the engine room, and he tilts his head to the side as he sees the invaders. "Tafv, aren't those the buyers for our cargo?"

 

"It seems they thought they could get an easy discount," the captain says, and raises an eyebrow. "You did this?" he asks Jarok, gesturing towards the Orion woman.

 

He nods, and tries not to flinch as Arizhel yanks up his shirt and seals his wound with some kind of stinging foam. Now that the fight is over, his hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline, and his head hurts the way it always does, a dull throbbing in his skull. But more than that, he's a little angry, and he thrusts out his empty hands, glaring at Tafv pointedly. And if he's overstepping his bounds, then so be it, because he could have done _more_ if he'd had a phaser. Disrupter. Whatever.

 

Arizhel barks out a laugh, flashing sharp teeth. "He has you there. Your spirited little _toy'wI'a'_ would have taken them both out without my help if he'd been armed."

 

"I don't-" Tafv begins to say, defensive, but Tytha interrupts him before he can get too far, her voice carrying through the open doorway.

 

"If he wanted to kill us in our sleep, _Riov_ , he would have done it days ago. He saved our livelihood today. Just give him a weapon."

 

Tafv sighs, and retrieves the disrupter pistol that the furry intruder had been carrying. "You know how to use one of these?" he asks, not handing it over yet.

 

How hard can it be? Jarok mimes pointing and firing a sidearm, finger crooked around an imaginary trigger. It's a familiar motion, one that his arm knows well, even if he can't remember shooting anything before. Because of that, he feels confident enough to nod, holding his hand out in a silent question.

 

"I'll take him to the range in the morning, see how he does," Desarr-Ka says, taking custody of the weapon.

 

Jarok drops his hand, trying not to be disappointed. _I guess if I was in their position, I'd be skittish too. I'll just have to give them no reason to doubt I can help._

 

"Get this cleaned up," Tafv says to Arizhel, gesturing towards the dead intruder. "'Ka, when the lady comes 'round, make it clear to her that she's still buying the cargo at a markup. Don't give her any other choice. And you," he says, pointing to Jarok, "come help me fix up the airlock. I don't want any more uninvited guests tonight."


	10. Chapter 10

It's been almost an entire month since Kirk was taken, and the _Enterprise_ has suffered for it.

 

Over the last four years, McCoy has gotten into the habit of wandering up to the bridge during the quiet moments, either just to see what's going on or to provide an outlet for the captain's concerns about whatever mission they're on that day. There was often friendly banter between colleagues, every officer on the bridge relaxed and used to working with each other, familiar and all but family. But without Kirk on the bridge, it's almost like the energy's been drained away. There's little idle chitchat, no joking around, and not a hell of a lot of smiling, least of all from the man in the center seat.

 

Spock's never had to be acting captain for this long, and while it'll never show on that stony Vulcan face of his, McCoy knows he's got to be stressed about the whole thing. God knows _he_ is.

 

_God, Jim, where are you?_

 

It's impossible to stand on the bridge and pretend that nothing's wrong. Not when all he has to do is turn his head and see Spock in the center seat. But it's even worse to be stuck down in Sickbay, waiting for news that never comes.

 

No news ever comes on the bridge, either. But at least they're all waiting together.

 

McCoy braces himself for another long day of nothing as he steps out of the turbolift, and for the first ten minutes, he's right. But then Uhura turns at her post, and says, "Commander, I'm receiving a video transmission from one of our contacts near the Neutral Zone. Security footage from the outpost on Arteline Three."

 

"Put it onscreen, lieutenant," Spock orders, almost imperceptibly straightening in the command chair.

 

The main viewscreen blinks to life, displaying what looks like a tavern or bar of some kind, the camera fixed in the corner of the ceiling, angle wide enough to show the vast majority of the establishment at once. It's lightly populated, a few small groups here and there, mostly sticking to themselves.

 

McCoy scans the room, not recognizing a single person, and his heart sinks a little. _Are we getting up our hopes for nothing?_

 

But then another group walks in.

 

A tall, lean Romulan man with a branching facial tattoo, dressed in a long leather coat that doesn't quite hide the disruptor pistol strapped to his thigh. A big, burly Orion wearing a sleeveless vest to show off his muscles, black ink creeping up past his high collar, looking every inch the kind of person you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. And a human male, clad nearly in all black, a gold-colored scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

 

His shaggy hair clearly hasn't been cut since he was taken, and the scruff says it's been at least a little while since a razor has touched his face, but McCoy would recognize him anywhere. "Jesus Christ, that's Jim!" the doctor exclaims.

 

It's the first time he's seen Kirk in twenty-nine days, when the captain came to visit him in Medical. Actually, even that isn't true. McCoy has felt guilty since the moment he realized he hadn't looked up at his friend, hadn't made eye contact, nothing. Just let Jim walk out the door without glancing his way even once.

 

"When was this footage recorded?" Spock demands, leaning forward slightly in the command chair, staring intently at the screen.

 

"Thirty-eight hours ago," Uhura reports, and she too is unable to look away from the screen, captivated by the first proof they've seen that their captain still lives.

 

On the viewscreen, Kirk and his alien companions take a seat at one of the tables. McCoy takes a few steps closer to the image, vainly wishing it would bring him closer to his friend and captain, and he desperately examines the slightly grainy footage to assess Kirk's wellbeing.

 

He doesn't move like he's injured, his motions deliberate and fluid. And from what he can see, Kirk doesn't look malnourished in any way, maintaining good muscle tone. But there's something odd about his behavior, almost submissive, something McCoy has never really seen from him before. And even though the two aliens he's with talk freely amongst themselves, Kirk never once opens his mouth to speak, not even to order his own drink, just quietly listening.

 

The fabric around Kirk's neck slips a bit, and McCoy catches a glimpse of a raised red burn scar on the nape of his neck. "Freeze it," he orders, and Uhura obligingly pauses the footage, letting him take a closer look at the mark. "He's been branded."

 

"Bozhe moi," Chekov whispers, horrified.

 

"Well," Sulu says, sounding shaken but trying to hide it, "at least we know the Romulan government didn't get him."

 

The footage doesn't have high enough resolution for McCoy to see any more fine details, so he waves to Uhura to start it rolling again. On screen, Kirk tugs the scarf self-consciously back into place, covering that glimpse of the brand on his neck. The other two don't seem to pay any attention, but at a table behind them, another Romulan patron takes notice and approaches. There's no audio, so they can't hear what he says to Kirk, but he's clearly displeased when Kirk shakes his head, and he grabs their captive captain's shoulder roughly.

 

The Orion and the Romulan that entered with Kirk take notice now, and the big Orion stands up, assuming a threatening posture, saying something they can't hear. The Romulan interloper sneers at him, taking his eyes off Kirk, and that's when the captain reacts.

 

In one smooth move, Kirk stands and grabs him by the front of his shirt, spinning him to slam his back against the table, and his other hand is suddenly holding a small disruptor pistol produced from seemingly nowhere, jamming it under the Romulan's jaw. He doesn't fire, though, nor does he look like he's saying anything. Just stares him down in silence, his expression one that McCoy has seen dozens of times on this very bridge, forcing the other guy to flinch first after a show of strength, when that is the only thing the other party will respect.

 

The Orion throws his head back, shoulders shaking with laughter that they can't hear, and Kirk lets go of the interloper, taking a step back and tucking his sidearm back in its hiding place against the small of his back. The Orion grabs their uninvited guest and hauls him to his feet, before giving him a hard shove, a not so subtle demand to get the hell away from them. Threat gone, he claps a hand on Kirk's shoulder in obvious approval.

 

The video continues for another six minutes, in which nothing else eventful occurs. But never once does McCoy notice Kirk speaking to anyone, and when the first Romulan and the Orion get up to leave, he immediately goes with them. The footage ends as they walk out of frame, and there's a baffled silence on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ as the screen goes dark.

 

"What kind of master gives a slave a weapon?" Sulu asks at last, breaking the silence.

 

"It is possible that the weapon is nonfunctional," Spock suggests, although he sounds uncharacteristically uncertain. "The captain did not fire, and he does have a history of bluffing his opponents when necessary. His actions appear to have amused his captors. Perhaps this is the purpose of providing him with such a tool."

 

"There's something else going on," Uhura says, frowning deeply. "Have you ever known Kirk to keep his mouth shut, especially when he's in danger?"

 

"I noticed that, too," McCoy agrees, his gut twisting with worry. "Something's really hinky here, and damned if I know what it is. He _looks_ healthy enough, but his body language was all wrong in about six different ways." _God only knows what they've been doing to him._

 

"Lieutenant Uhura, please send a response to the contact that sent this footage," Spock orders. "Request any additional intelligence they may have on the whereabouts of Captain Kirk, and the identities of those who are holding him captive. We must pursue every possible lead."


	11. Chapter 11

The first time it happens, he thinks maybe he's dying.

 

Jarok has been tired since yesterday, and hauling thirty crates of some kind of drug off the _Shadowbird_ to the delivery point at Outpost Kre certainly doesn't help matters. What's worse is the headache that has been his constant companion for as long as he can remember, since the moment he woke in the hands of slavers. Usually just a dull sense of pressure in the side of his head, the physical activity pokes and prods it into a low roar, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He grimaces, rubbing at the side of his head, near the scar in his hairline.

 

_Better get some sleep, or it'll bother me for hours._

 

It's not the night cycle, but he's completed his duties for the moment, and he doesn't want to waste the opportunity to nap if there'll be more work later. So he toes off his boots, crawls into his hammock in the engine room, and hides his face in the crook of his elbow, burying himself in darkness.

 

He thinks that maybe he sleeps; it's hard to really tell, lost in a throbbing sea of pain. But when he jerks awake at the sound of his name, the world spins around him in a way that has nothing to do with the sway of the hammock, and his stomach lurches uncomfortably. He opens his eyes and immediately slams them shut again as the light stabs down, twisting into his eye sockets and wrenching deep into his brain, and even the gentle hum of the engines at idle resonates painfully through his head.

 

Footsteps approach, clanging on the deckplates, the sound bouncing off the inside of his skull and ricocheting in agony. "Jarok?" the voice repeats, and through the haze of pain he recognizes it as the captain. "Are you all right?"

 

His throat is involuntarily going through the motions of groaning in pain, heedless of the fact that he can't give voice to it, leaving him to suffer in silence. He clutches at his head, futilely trying to stop the agony, as if his fingers could hold in what feels like his entire brain trying its hardest to liquefy and pour itself out of his ears. His mouth waters sickeningly at the thought, and before he can recognize what's happening, he's retching over the side of the hammock, eyes still clamped tightly shut.

 

"Arizhel!" Tafv bellows, every syllable cutting deep into his head, twisting into the cracks.

 

_Dammit, Bones is gonna kill me._ The thought floats across his consciousness out of nowhere, and he can't spare the energy to wonder who the hell Bones is supposed to be, too consumed by the pain in his head and the world reeling drunkenly around him.

 

Somewhere through the haze, he hears a hiss, and some of the pain ratchets down from blinding to merely agonizing. He cracks open his eyes, just a sliver, and sees someone leaning over him. Pointed ears, short black hair, arrow-straight eyebrows. Young, stone-faced, looking down at him with dark eyes that look almost human. But then he blinks, and the stranger melts into Tafv's tattooed visage, looking down at him with naked concern in his green eyes.

 

Then the captain leans back, and Arizhel takes his place, shining a small light in his eyes and sending piercing pain jolting through his skull again. He tries to squirm away, squeezing his eyes shut as his head throbs mercilessly. There's a rumble of voices over his head, but he can't concentrate on the sounds enough to interpret what they mean this time. There's another hiss, a small pinch against his neck, and then everything goes away for a while.

 

* * *

 

"That looked like a lot more than 'just a headache,' Arizhel."

 

Between the two of them, still held safely on his strange suspended bunk, Jarok is mercifully unconscious, knocked out by the sedative the Klingon medic dosed him with. Now that the slave isn't writhing in pain, she examines him in more detail, scanning him with an old battered tricorder. "I _told_ you his _QoghIj_ was delicate. It's more surprising this didn't happen sooner."

 

Humans have such _thin_ skulls, and even weaker brains. Arizhel isn't sure she can ever get across to Tafv just how hard of a hit this Terran took to his head before Desarr-Ka decided that buying a discounted love slave was a great idea. That he's this functional at all is nothing short of amazing.

 

Her scan turns up pretty much what she suspected. She can still see the marks in the bone from where his fractured skull was knit back together, and underneath that are the lesions on his brain tissue she saw before. Not worse, thankfully. But there is some inflammation around the cranial nerves, probably aggravated by all that grunt labor they've been having him do today.

 

Arizhel isn't an expert with Terran physiology, bizarre and alien as it is. But this doesn't seem critical or life-threatening to her, so she snaps the tricorder shut and looks up at the captain. "Let him sleep it off for a while. If he's not better by tomorrow, _then_ we start worrying."

 

The slave is completely out for nearly half the day. Arizhel isn't terribly concerned, but she does check on him every so often to make sure he hasn't gotten any worse. On her fifth trip down to the engine room, she finds him just starting to sit up, looking rumpled and confused.

 

"Feeling better?" she growls at him, and is a little satisfied with how quickly his head snaps up, startled at her approach. A Klingon would have noticed her immediately, not only when she drew attention to herself, but it's good response time for a Terran.

 

Jarok winces a little, but he doesn't look inclined to evacuate his stomach contents again, which means he's recovering as well as anticipated. He looks a bit disoriented, but he's a Terran, so she wasn't really expecting anything different. He nods a little in response to her question and rubs the side of his head, at the site of his scar.

 

Arizhel is glad he's awake, because that means she doesn't have to rely on technology to tell her how her patient is doing. As a Klingon, she prefers to see the damage for herself, not through some mechanized digital representation. She produces the small light from the medkit and shines it into his eyes, satisfied at his pupil response and the lack of that eerie silent screaming he was doing the last time she tested his eyes.

 

All things considered, he seems as normal as he has been since the day he came onboard. Which is not to say that he's a perfect model of Terran health, of course, but the crippling headache does not appear to have caused any more damage than he started with. "How is the pain?" she asks brusquely, and he puts out one hand, palm facing towards the deck, and tilts it back and forth. Not a gesture she's seen before, but it's not a yes or a no, so she can take a guess. She's a Klingon, she's not stupid. "If it gets worse, tell someone. Desarr-Ka will be annoyed if your head explodes."

 

Jarok gapes at her, and she can tell he isn't sure if she's joking. She grins, baring her sharp teeth, and slaps his shoulder. "You're fine, _ghoghHom_. Get back to work before everyone realizes how lazy you are."

 

* * *

 

The next time it happens is sixteen days later. This time, when Jarok starts to see the vision fuzzing out in one eye, he goes straight to Arizhel and motions towards his head, and presses the heel of his hand into his blurry eye as if it'll help stave off the migraine. She takes one look at his face and drags him back to his bunk before hitting him with a hypo, grumbling under her breath. It's strangely familiar, and he falls into the dark before he can think about why.

 

He spends the next nine hours in a drug-induced stupor, barely aware of his surroundings, the agony in his head a distant roar that takes an eternity to die down. He dreams, or he thinks he does, strange images parading through his hazy mind, disconnected memories devoid of context. He sees a burning saucer falling, watching through a thick pane of glass, his stomach dropping into his boots. And then he's pressed up against the glass, his entire body on fire as it weakens, his hand mirroring another on the other side of the transparency, fingers spread. He sits in a jail cell, knuckles bloody and lip split, full of youthful energy and anger at the world. He stands on a shining silver and white bridge as two security officers seize him and drag him away, and he knows he's not supposed to be there, but not where he is or why. Words, images, all jumbled together in a shifting mass of confusion, one blending into the next, unable to tell them apart.

 

When he finally drags himself back to consciousness, the echo of the pain still bouncing around in his skull, Tytha is waiting for him with a hot mug of something that smells of herbs.

 

"Arizhel says you'll probably have bad head pains every now and then," she tells him as he sips it slowly, grimacing at the medicinal taste. "She doesn’t have the knowledge or the technology she'd need to fix it, just manage your symptoms. How are you feeling?"

 

He's been better. But his head isn't trying to split itself open right now, and even though he knows he dreamed, he can't remember what about, only that it was confusing and random, flashes of nothing specific he can recall. So he just gives her a thumbs up, and raises the mug in a small salute of thanks. It tastes foul, but his head throbs a little less, so he makes himself keep drinking it.

 

Tytha smiles back at him, and pats his hand gently. He doesn't remember what it's like to have a mother, but he sure hopes it was like this, and he wishes with all his heart that he could truly thank her, not just gesture and hope she takes it the right way. He chews at his lip, thinking, and before he can change his mind he leans forward and puts his arms around her in a hug, careful not to spill the rest of his mug on her.

 

She starts in surprise, and he has just enough time to worry that maybe this is a Terran thing before she reciprocates, holding him and lightly rubbing his back with gentle hands. "You're welcome, _aehval_."


	12. Chapter 12

It's been roughly a hundred days since Jarok came aboard, and Tafv has to admit, the Terran is actually a lot more useful than he'd thought a damaged slave would be. He's obedient, hard-working, and hasn't even tried to escape once. The only downside is the headaches that lay him out completely every few weeks, difficult to predict, but at least there's apparently a decent amount of warning time leading up to the attacks, because he always finishes his task before crawling into his bunk to sleep it off, courtesy of Arizhel's hypos.

 

Tafv stands in the open doorway of the engine room, watching the slave work. Jarok has done some pretty impressive things with the _Shadowbird_ 's engines since he came onboard. Warp drive efficiency is up thirteen percent, and he's certain it's due to more than just proper maintenance that the systems haven't had in years. Half of the circuits behind the bulkheads have been rewired piece by piece, and even though most of the components were cobbled together out of leftover parts to begin with, the slave has replaced even some of those with his own designs, built out of scraps he's purchased at various ports they've docked in over the last month.

 

It's remarkable work. Not for the first time, Tafv wonders who this Terran was before he was silenced and enslaved. But even though he can read just fine, attempts to get him to write have only ended in frustration on both sides, his text an illegible mess of Federation symbols and Romulan letters, like they're being jumbled up in his head before he can make a coherent sentence. Probably another casualty of the head injury he sustained in the hands of the slavers.

 

Right now, Jarok is calibrating the impulse engines, a familiar expression of confused concentration fixed on his face as he works. There's no telling how much he consciously recalls about how to do his job, and he does make occasional mistakes, but for the most part he's been an excellent _paectum_.

 

Tafv clears his throat, and Jarok looks up, those startlingly blue eyes widening slightly in recognition, giving the captain his full attention. "I need to talk to you," Tafv says, giving him a small smile, not wanting to intimidate the Terran into thinking he's in trouble. "Is now a good time?"

 

Jarok steps back from the console and nods, gesturing toward a pair of crates on the floor, his expression questioning. Sitting down is a good idea, and Tafv nods in return, taking a seat on one of the containers, the Terran claiming a spot on another. The slave fidgets a little, visibly nervous, but he doesn't flinch from eye contact, waiting to hear what the captain has to say.

 

"Your performance has been excellent," Tafv says, keeping the smile on his face. It's not really difficult to do. Somehow or another, the silent Terran has made himself a valuable member of the crew, someone that Tafv does not mind knowing one bit, even if his presence is still a constant reminder of the dishonorable practice of slavery. Desarr-Ka is, too. It's just easier to forget, with him. " _Shadowbird_ has never run as well as she does now, and a lot of that is thanks to you."

 

Jarok ducks his head slightly, though Tafv can't tell if it's in modesty or discomfort at having his efforts scrutinized. He looks back up, though, as the captain continues. "You've proven your worth, as far as I'm concerned. I'd like to offer you a full share on our jobs from this point." The slave looks surprised, but he tentatively smiles back and nods, gratitude on his face.

 

Tafv had never thought he'd be making a Terran, and a slave, at that, a full member of the crew. But he's repaid Desarr-Ka's meager investment a dozen times over already, and he has no doubt that without Jarok's hard work, they'd be in much worse shape now than they are. He's already _made_ himself crew, even if it hadn't been in so many words before today.

 

"With that in mind," Tafv says, drawing the Terran's attention again, "since you'll be sticking around, I have been looking into finding a better way for you to communicate. The Romulan military uses hand signals for ground combat situations, and the Orion Syndicate has a similar secret code for silent communication when conducting deals with outsiders. The Terrans, your people, seem to have developed their hand language for use by those who cannot hear." It's a bit of an odd reason to develop a code made of gestures, but Jarok sits up a little straighter to hear it, listening intently. "The next time we're on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone, if you're willing to try to learn, we should be able to get our hands on instructional material."

 

Jarok nods immediately, but there's uncertainty on his face, and Tafv can only take a guess at what's bothering him. "It's not extra trouble, if that's what you're worried about. If something goes wrong with the engines, I need you to be able to tell me what it is. And besides, Terran Sign isn't common in this part of the galaxy. It could be useful for us to be able to speak to each other without being overheard."

 

The Terran's smile widens, and he nods again. There's the customary hesitation on his face, like he wants to speak, though he knows he'll never be able to make a sound. Then he holds his hand flat and touches it to his brow, a gesture Tafv recognizes as the Terran version of a salute. A gesture of thanks, perhaps.

 

"You're welcome," he says, and gets to his feet. "Better finish up with those impulse engines. We've got a new shipment to bring onboard by day's end, and we'll need your help to get them loaded. How are you with animals?"

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Jarok is _great_ with animals.

 

Their cargo today is a whole herd of something the captain calls _tsemu_ , big hoofed quadrupeds with shaggy blue fur and stubby horns on their heads. And even though he's certain he's never seen one before, somewhere in the void of his memory, he thinks he can recall sitting astride something similar... there was a wide open field, flush with long golden plants that rippled in the breeze, and he remembers gently digging his heels into the horse's sides to encourage it along, its long legs eating up the distance.

 

These things aren't quite the same, but they're close enough.

 

So Jarok's hands know better than he does how to fasten the soft straps on their faces, a soft harness of some kind, leading them by their heads into the belly of the _Shadowbird_. One of the _tsemu_ balks, trying to rear back, away from the darkness of the ship, and Jarok swiftly pulls down on the harness, forcing it to plant all four skittish hooves on the deck. He moves in close to the beast's head, gently stroking the creature's soft muzzle to calm it.

 

He can't pacify it with words or a soothing tone of voice, can't even make reassuring noises at it, but its ears flick toward him, paying attention to him regardless. And when he gives it a small tug, pulling it toward the open cargo bay ramp, it slowly follows, focused on the human touching its face.

 

"You're good at this, _ngosazhecu_ ," Desarr-Ka says with a grin. The big Orion is standing at the top of the ramp, checking each beast off a list to ensure they have all thirty-one _tsemu_ onboard. "You haven't done this before, have you?"

 

Normally, all he can do is shrug, most of his memories little more than flashes of images, fragments of voices, jumbled up and indistinct. But he's also come to realize that if his hands know how to do something, he _must_ have had experience with it, before he became a slave. So he smiles a little, and nods, continuing to do his job. The big _tsemu_ shifts nervously at the feel of metal under its hooves, but it calms as it is led up to the rest of the herd, soothed by the presence of its family group.

 

_I know just how you feel, big guy._ Jarok pats the beast on its flank, avoiding the brand seared into its blue fur, a Romulan symbol he doesn't recognize. The _tsemu_ nickers at the touch, and he smiles a little at the sound, strangely familiar. _Yeah, me too._

 

A large green hand falls on his shoulder, and he glances up to see Desarr-Ka grinning down at him. "Hope you've got experience cleaning up after them, too. It'll be two days before we reach the Nimbus system, and I can tell you from experience, there's going to be one _uto_ of a smell by the time we get there."

 

Jarok makes a face, and sighs, more for effect than out of actual annoyance. It's dirty work, but for some reason, he doesn't mind so much. And besides... he knows what it's like to be marked and sold, treated like a dumb animal, held captive against his will. He was lucky enough to fall under the care of a master who takes good care of him. The least he can do for these creatures is give them some small measure of the same.


	13. Chapter 13

Khazara colony is exactly as Jarok remembers from nearly four months ago. It's a rare novelty for him, to have any memory of a place to compare it to - besides the _Shadowbird_ , of course - and he can't stop smiling as he wanders through the alien bazaar, no longer the uncertain slave out of his depth. Once again he follows Desarr-Ka through the market, but at his side, not at his heels.

 

He still wears the boots and black pants that were purchased for him, but he's expanded his clothing choices since then, spending his own share of their cut to add his own style. He tends to stick to shirts in shades of yellow, mostly concealed under a battered leather jacket, certain that he used to have one just like it because of how familiar it smells. And of course, he still wears the golden scarf tied around his neck to hide his brand from prying eyes. Even though his hair is growing long enough that it will cover the mark soon, it's still reassuring to know that it's hidden away, allowing him to move through the crowd with confidence and ease.

 

People still stare a little at seeing a Terran in the streets, but it's light-years of difference from the disdainful looks he got when they could tell he was a slave. Now they're just wary on first glance, relaxing only when they see him in the company of an Orion. Probably assuming he's a defector, some kind of criminal on the run from the Federation. And for all he knows, he might be. He's starting to remember enough scattered fragments of waiting in detention centers when he was younger, fleeing from law enforcement in some kind of ground vehicle, and on one occasion, he's managed to recall being held at phaser-point by a burly Terran in a red uniform, who glared at him, naked anger on his face.

 

_It's probably a good thing I ended up here. If I'm wanted in Federation space, Romulan territory is probably the safest place to be._

 

Desarr-Ka visits many of the same establishments that they did on Jarok's first visit, ordering supplies to refresh their stores. Fresh food for the galley, spare parts for repairs, new power packs for disruptors. Unlike last time, he doesn't make the slave carry all the little things, splitting the work between the two of them, almost as if they are equals.

 

They're not, of course. Jarok can never forget that Desarr-Ka literally owns him, not with the brand on his nape and silence on his lips. But the Orion has never once lorded it over him, never abused his power over the life he holds in his hands. And while he once followed Desarr-Ka because he had nowhere else to go, he now follows him because his master has his loyalty, earned by treating him as a friend, and a sentient being. With respect, despite his injuries, despite the purpose the slavers designated for him.

 

Jarok's gaze trails over the merchant stalls as they pass by, and he slows for a moment as a glint of metal catches his attention, detouring through the crowd to get a better look. It's a thick silver bracelet, designed to wrap around the wrist three times in a gradual spiral. The merchant straightens, noticing his interest, and offers it to him to try on.

 

As he does, a flash of three silver bands around a golden sleeve paints itself across the canvas of his scattered memory, a dull ache throbbing sympathetically in his head. He doesn't know what it means, but whatever it is... it was important to him once.

 

It's an expensive purchase, but he gladly pays the price, handing over most of his savings. The cuff rests comfortably on his wrist, tucked underneath the leather sleeve of his jacket, away from curious eyes.

 

"Hey _ngosazhecu_ , keep up!" Desarr-Ka's friendly voice calls from down the street, and he turns, sidling through the crowd to rejoin his friend. Jarok rubs his fist against his chest in the Terran Sign gesture of apology, one of the first words he learned in his new lessons, and the big Orion smiles and gives a friendly slap at his arm. "I don't mind if you shop around, just let me know where you're going."

 

He nods in agreement. It's a reasonable request, after all, to ensure that the people who care about him know where he is.

 

* * *

 

Spock sits in the command chair of the _Enterprise_ , his reluctant post these past few months, fingers steepled together as he contemplates his lack of viable actions. On the main viewscreen, Lieutenant Uhura has compiled a list of the intelligence they have obtained so far. A few surveillance video fragments from establishments on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone, partial criminal records of the two aliens seen with Kirk - smugglers, as it turns out - and an incomplete list of planets where Kirk has been reported seen, even if only momentarily. The lack of much reliable information is not unexpected, of course. There are few who are friendly to Starfleet that may also access the Romulan side of the border, and the information that trickles across the Neutral Zone is few and far between. So there are little more than fragmented sources to analyze, pieces of a puzzle that may not fit together.

 

There is no obvious logic to the path his captors take, zigzagging back and forth across the Neutral Zone, venturing even occasionally into Klingon space. With no pattern to follow, anticipating their next move and intercepting them once they arrive is all but impossible. And as their five year mission begins to draw closer to its end, the probability of Kirk's safe return decreases by the day.

 

Logically, he knows this. But he does not accept it.

 

Captain Kirk is officially listed as missing in action, and Spock has been promoted to Captain in his place. But Spock does not accept this either, and continues to wear the commander's stripes on his sleeves, even as he sits in the center chair day after day. Command of the _Enterprise_ belongs to his captain, and no other, regardless of his absence.

 

Anything less is unacceptable.

 

"Continue course along the Neutral Zone," he commands, and continues to contemplate their gathered intelligence, still searching for the clues that will bring them to their captain. To bring him home.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work tomorrow is going to be very long and very horrible so I'm uploading tomorrow's chapter early! If I'm not tired as shit when I get home, I may upload chapter fifteen (which is already written) too, but if not, I'll definitely get the next chapter up on Saturday. :D

There's something strangely appealing about the organized chaos in a well established outlaw's haven. Jarok pauses for a moment at the doorway to the tavern, gaze sweeping the room for any obvious threats, a habit he's learned from his shipmates over the last five months. But while there are a few idle glances from other patrons, he doesn't notice the telltale signs of anyone paying too much attention, or perhaps trying too hard not to appear as though they are.

 

There are several card games being played here and there, some of which he recognizes as gambling games that Desarr-Ka and Arizhel have been teaching him during down-time between ports, and there's a small crowd near the stage at the back, where a red-skinned alien woman and a reptilian male are dancing for the public's entertainment. Loud music is blasting, nothing he recognizes, but the beat is a pleasing one that doesn't aggravate his headache any more than usual.

 

He spots Desarr-Ka, already claiming a spot at the bar for the rest of the group, and Jarok gladly begins to make his way across the room, cutting between tables and other walking patrons. He accidentally bumps against a chair on the way, and the seated Klingon curses loudly enough to be heard over the music, standing and turning to face the Terran, wearing a good portion of ale on his chest.

 

_Damn, I don't think signing 'sorry' is going to help here._

 

Jarok puts an apologetic look on his face, but the Klingon isn't really interested. The alien towers over him, jabbing a finger into his chest as he growls, words inaudible and incomprehensible underneath the blaring music, and he tries not to flinch. He knows from Arizhel that showing weakness to a Klingon is usually a bad move. _Maybe if I pay for his drink?_

 

He reaches towards his pocket, intending to produce a handful of talons, but the Klingon apparently takes it as him reaching for a weapon, because the next thing he knows, he's being belted across the face with an armored fist, and the ceiling whips by in a flash.

 

He hits the floor hard, sprawled on his back as a riot breaks out above his head. He honestly can't tell if people were just waiting for the excuse or what, but there are at least five people throwing punches at each other, and he has to quickly roll out of the way to avoid being accidentally stepped on in the chaos. A big green hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him to his feet, pulling him away from the brawl.

 

Between the music, the shouting, and the sounds of glass and tables breaking, it's nearly impossible for Desarr-Ka to make himself heard over the cacophony. Fortunately, in order for Jarok's lessons in Terran Sign to be useful, his shipmates have had to learn the same gestures he does. Their vocabulary is still extremely limited, but at least they're all at the same level of knowledge. _You hurt?_ Desarr-Ka's hands ask.

 

He makes the sign for _okay_ in reply, but Desarr-Ka replies with _blood_ and gestures towards his nose. Jarok swipes at his upper lip, coming away with red on his fingers, and he grimaces, grabbing a handful of paper napkins from a nearby table to stop the bleeding. There's something weirdly familiar about all this, like he's done this before, and the fragmented memories of sitting in police custody seem to agree. _I wonder how many bar fights I've been in before._

 

Further investigation reveals that the bridge of his nose is swollen and tender to the touch, not enough to be broken, but certainly painful. He looks up and signs _okay_ again, a little more insistent, and Desarr-Ka shakes his head with a smile, giving his sleeve a gentle tug to guide him over towards the bar. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the barkeep, and turns his head a little to get a better look at the spectacular purple bruise blooming under his left eye. _Looks like someone beat the crap out of me. Thanks, Klingon guy._

 

Desarr-Ka doesn't normally order iced drinks for him, but the barkeep slides an entire tankard full of crushed ice across the bar to Jarok, and he gives the man a grateful nod. The cold tankard is soothing against his bruised face, and he closes his eyes for a moment, smiling despite himself, not quite sure why. Something about a Terran male with silver in his hair, a piercingly loud whistle, and throwing down a challenge... but he can't grasp the memory before it fully forms, and it slips away, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. He sighs, frustrated with himself and strangely melancholy at the loss.

 

He has to be patient, he knows that. He's already remembered more than he thought possible over these last few months, even if it's jumbled and makes little sense. But every time, he keeps a little more, a tiny fragment of who he used to be, a small piece of the puzzle. Maybe he'll never get all the pieces back, maybe the puzzle will remain incomplete for the rest of his life, and he'll never know what picture it forms. But until he knows that for certain, he'll take every glimpse he can wring out of his damaged mind.

 

Even if it does sometimes leave his heart aching, with no idea why.

 

The brawl has finally been broken up, leaving only the loud music as background noise again. Desarr-Ka nudges his shoulder, and he opens his unbruised eye to look questioningly at him. "What was that all about?" the Orion asks, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.

 

Jarok mimes pouring out a drink, and signs _mistake_. It's a ridiculously inadequate description of what happened, restricted by his own severely limited vocabulary, but it's better than charades and Desarr-Ka gets it immediately.

 

"You have to be more careful in places like this. A lot of pirates are spoiling for a fight, and they'll use any excuse to let off some steam." But he doesn't look mad, and he gestures towards the Terran's face. "Want Arizhel to take a look at that?"

 

He considers it, but shakes his head. The less he does to piss her off, the better, and she's always annoyed when she's called on for trivial injuries. A black eye isn't life-threatening or interfering with his ability to do his job, and it'll heal on its own. _Remind mistake_ , he signs, and the big Orion laughs heartily.

 

"Good point," Desarr-Ka agrees.


	15. Chapter 15

"You do realize that this is quite possibly the riskiest thing we've ever done, right, _Riov_?"

 

Tafv doesn't _actually_ say 'what could possibly go wrong?' but it's close. The captain smiles at Tytha, hiding his own concern with the ease of long practice. "Yeah, but the payoff is also the biggest we've ever been offered."

 

The cockpit of the _Shadowbird_ is a bit crowded with all five crew inside, not nearly enough seats for all of them. But with the captain occupied with flying the ship, and Arizhel keeping an eye out for sensor contacts, there's really no other place for having one last meeting before it's too late to talk.

 

Tytha lightly leans on the back of Arizhel's copilot chair, idly watching the sensor scans. Desarr-Ka takes up most of the doorway, the easiest space for the biggest member of the crew to fit in. Jarok has a seat on the starboard nav console, carefully perched to avoid changing any settings, sitting forward so no one has to turn too much to see what his hands have to say.

 

 _Crazy,_ the Terran signs, but there's a grin on his face, without even a hint of fear. The dark bruise around his eye gives him a roguish look, worn more like a badge of honor than a real injury. He's come a long way from the frightened, pathetic slave that Desarr-Ka bought all those months ago. _Fun_ , Jarok adds.

 

Desarr-Ka barks out a laugh. "I've created a monster," he says, and Jarok's shoulders shake a little with silent laughter.

 

"It is a great challenge," Arizhel says, baring her teeth in a vicious grin. "Governments rely too much on technology. It will be a great pleasure to show them that their science alone is not enough to ensure superiority."

 

Out the front viewport, Romulan Outpost Fve grows larger as they approach, and as the station slowly turns, Tafv catches sight of their target. A Romulan bird of prey, so new that the paint job is still unmarred by battlescars, docked with the station. And somewhere onboard is the newly developed cloaking device, or so they've been informed.

 

"Everyone's clear on their tasks?" Tafv asks, and makes sure to look at every single member of his crew to make absolutely sure there are no last minute hesitations.

 

"As exciting as it is to guard the ship, I think I can handle it," Tytha says, a little dryly.

 

"It's important," Desarr-Ka says with a shrug. "If our getaway vehicle is compromised, it doesn't matter how smooth the retrieval is." He nods to the captain. "We can cause one hell of a distraction. If any decent part of their crew is taking leave on the station, I can almost guarantee they're going to be drinking in the lounge."

 

Arizhel glances over her shoulder at him. "Getting centurions upset enough to fight is not hard. But I look forward to it."

 

That leaves Jarok, who dutifully uses his basic knowledge of Terran Sign to reiterate his own role in the job ahead of them. _Access computer. Find. Open doors._

 

"And you're sure you can handle that?" Tafv asks, not doubting his _paectum_ 's ability, but needing to know for certain. They're risking a lot if this is one of the many skills he knows more through instinct than memory.

 

Jarok looks a little hurt, though surely he knows the captain doesn't mean to insult him. _Yes,_ he signs, very emphatic.

 

"All right, that's good enough for me," Tafv says, and is rewarded by a smile from the youngest member of his little crew. "We dock in five."

 

* * *

 

It's been a long time since he's had to actually act like a slave, and it sits uneasily on his shoulders now. Jarok resist the urge to scratch at his face, clean-shaven for the first time in weeks. His hair's been cut short too, styled to be pleasing to the eye, and without his scarf, the brand on the nape of his neck and the scars on his throat are uncomfortably exposed.

 

His usual clothes have been left behind on the _Shadowbird_ too, traded for a somewhat more revealing outfit that shows off his strong arms and bare chest. It's not so bad, dressed this way by choice this time, but it's still uncomfortable to know that people will be looking at him again, like they did at the auction. It's necessary though, to trick the Romulans on the station - and the bird of prey - into overlooking him as nothing more than a slave. And once they believe it, there's almost nowhere he can't go.

 

He lowers his eyes as he makes his way through the corridors of the outpost, passing uniformed Romulans left and right. More than one of them turn to look at him, but he doesn't make eye contact, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. His decision not to heal his bruised face is working in his favor, occasional comments from the centurions reaching his ears as he passes.

 

"Must have displeased his master."

 

"A filthy Terran like him deserves worse than that."

 

"It's a good look on him. Look at those eyes."

 

"I wonder who he belongs to."

 

But their curiosity is an idle one, not wanting to risk the wrath of his master by messing with him. After all, he's clearly had the proper attitude beaten into him already, and he's behaving exactly as a slave should. Silent, stepping out of the way of his betters, not daring to look them in the eye.

 

Jarok reaches the airlock connecting the bird of prey with the station without incident. He waits a moment until the coast is clear, then opens the security panel in the wall, quickly searching for the correct combination of wires and connections to force the security systems to let him through. He forces himself to breathe slowly and regularly, even as his heart begins to race at every echo of a footstep, the small hairs on the back of his neck prickling, alert and on edge. Any minute now, someone is going to step into the corridor and see him, and even his appearance as a slave won't be enough to save him from suspicion. Even with Tafv standing guard further down the corridor, there's little the captain can do to prevent anyone from coming this way without blowing the whole operation.

 

And his head is starting to throb again, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart, another migraine threatening to roar to the front of his brain. _I have to work fast, or we're screwed._ He ignores the pain as best he can, using all his concentration to focus on his task.

 

After several nerve-wracking minutes, the light on the panel flashes blue and the door slides open. Tafv appears at his side in moments. "Good work," he says in a low voice, quickly stepping through, Jarok at his heels. "Looks like most of the crew are ashore. There's a mainframe access point two decks down," he says, pointing towards the hatch that will lead him downward. "I'll meet you there after I pick up a uniform."

 

Tafv seems to know an awful lot about the layout of these things, and Jarok regrets that they don't have the time to talk about it, left wondering if maybe his captain used to be in the Romulan military, and if so, why he might have left. But this is neither the time nor the place, so he nods, and heads for the hatch.

 

The inside of the bird of prey is oddly cramped, her corridors narrow and claustrophobic, darkly painted and unwelcoming, though his aching head is grateful for the darkness. It's so different from the familiar layout of the _Shadowbird_ , and the gleaming silver leviathan that he sees in his dreams. He suppresses a shiver that has nothing to do with feeling cold, and keeps his gaze down as he passes two uniformed guards. _I'm supposed to be here. How else would I have gotten on board?_ He holds the lie in his mind, projects it as hard as he can, every step he takes imbued with purpose, hiding his fear.

 

And they don't stop him.

 

He can't let any of the triumph show on his face. Jarok keeps his head cast downward, submissive, steadily working his way towards the mainframe access point. It's unguarded, as he'd hoped. Who onboard would access it without authorization, after all?

 

The security here is even easier to bypass than the door lock, and he swiftly begins paging through files, searching for their target. There's far more than he expected, intelligence and research files on brand new developments, and he regrets that his skimpy slave outfit has nowhere to hide a datapad.

 

A uniformed Romulan turns the corner, and Jarok glances up to make sure it's Tafv, his tattoo mostly hidden underneath an open-faced helmet. "Find it yet?" the captain murmurs.

 

Jarok holds up one index finger, and continues his search. The data on the screen is starting to wobble a bit, warning him that he really needs to get horizontal before the real pain starts, and he pushes past the discomfort, trying to find the right file. Finally, information on the cloaking device comes up, and he pulls up a floor plan of the bird of prey, pointing to the location of the mechanism. _Here,_ he signs to Tafv. And with a few more keystrokes, he disables the door seals between them and their target, flashing a thumbs up to his captain.

 

"Great job. Now get back to _Shadowbird_ , quick as you can. Make sure Tytha's ready to take off the moment everyone's onboard," Tafv tells him, voice low.

 

Jarok doesn't like leaving the captain alone in enemy territory. Or being alone himself, to be perfectly honest, especially with the ache in his head getting more intense. _Careful,_ he signs, hoping that it isn't the last time they'll see each other.

 

"You too." Tafv gives him a tight smile, and disappears into the dark maze inside the bird of prey.

 

Jarok doesn't sit around to watch him go. He leaves the computer just how he found it, and begins to retrace his steps back towards the airlock. It's harder than it should be, his thoughts becoming disjointed and confused as his headache gets worse, and his vision narrows until he can only focus on what's immediately in front of him. _Just get back to the_ Shadowbird _. Five more minutes. Then you can pass out._

 

He doesn't remember the trip back to the ship. Three steps into his home, he sags against the bulkhead, the world spinning around him. Tytha's concerned face appears before him, blurry and reeling like everything else, and he lets go, sinking into pain-filled black, cradled in her gentle grasp.


	16. Chapter 16

The job could not have gone smoother. Tafv returns to the _Shadowbird_ with the cloaking device, Desarr-Ka and Arizhel show up with a few more bruises than they started with, and they make a clean getaway without getting shot at more than maybe a dozen times. Sure, Jarok's been down for the count since he made it back to the ship, but that's nothing out of the ordinary.

 

At least, that's what Tafv assumes until Arizhel approaches him, a deep frown etching extra ridges into her forehead. "Something is wrong with him."

 

Klingons aren't prone to worrying over nothing, and Arizhel is no exception. She immediately has his attention. "How bad?" he asks, setting the _Shadowbird_ on autopilot and following the medic back to the crew quarters.

 

No one had wanted to try wrangling Jarok into his suspended bunk without his active cooperation, so he's laid out on Desarr-Ka's bed for the moment, flat on his back, still clad in the slave clothing he wore to infiltrate the bird of prey. His eyes are open just enough to tell that he's awake, but he doesn't really react to the sound of others entering the room, quietly staring into some middle distance like he's daydreaming, or incredibly tired.

 

Arizhel angles her tricorder so Tafv can see the readout as she scans the human's head. "There are signs of recent unusual electrical activity. It's something Terrans call _seizure_. It happens after head injuries sometimes."

 

Tafv frowns in concern. The tricorder readings don't make a hell of a lot of sense to him, but he's not a medic. He's seen enough of Arizhel's readings on Jarok to tell that it's different, though. "Is it harmful?"

 

She shrugs. "It can be. I really don't know, _HoD_. But he came very close to ruining the job. We need this fixed, or he is a risk, and I can't do anything for him. We're not equipped to repair this kind of damage." Arizhel leans over Jarok and tests his eyes' response to her handheld light, and this time he tries to flinch away, but his movements are uncoordinated and confused. "He should recover from this but it can happen again. He needs real treatment."

 

Tafv was afraid of that. "Do what you can for him right now. Meet me up front when he's stable so we can discuss our options. I'll get Tytha and Desarr-Ka."

 

* * *

 

As the _Shadowbird_ warps along through Romulan space, her cockpit is once again crowded by her small crew. This time, with one less person to take up space.

 

It's the same four that have been on the ship for years, but Desarr-Ka is already missing the presence of the silent Terran, that constant shadow at his side, already irreplaceable. Especially now that he's slowly started learning how to communicate with them, it feels like a loss to not have their young friend here, using his expressive face and hands to add to the conversation. _He should be here. We're talking about his life._

 

"Is there any way we could take him to a border hospital?" Tytha asks, brow furrowed in concern. "They might be more willing to overlook our records."

 

"It'd be expensive," Tafv points out, his hands clenched around one another to stop them from fidgeting. "Border hospitals are always going to be pricey. Even if we pooled all our savings together, it probably wouldn't be enough to pay for any kind of procedure."

 

"Well we can't take him to a facility in Romulan space," Arizhel says, shaking her head. "They won't know the first thing about Terran anatomy either, and we _did_ just steal military secrets."

 

"We have to take him to his own people," Desarr-Ka realizes, and that brings its own set of concerns. With his halting, limited Terran Sign vocabulary, Jarok has told him that he remembers being in trouble with the authorities more than once. It's entirely possible that they're still looking for him.

 

"That'll be risky," Tafv says. "But I think you're right."

 

Tytha worries at her lower lip with her teeth. "We could go to Starfleet. They're not law enforcement, and they have a reputation of caring for the weak. They don't charge for aid, either."

 

"They may not ask for money, but we still need to offer something, or we won't make it past the Neutral Zone," Arizhel points out.

 

There's really only one option, and Desarr-Ka's heart sinks a bit as he considers just how much money they would lose. "Something like a cloaking device?"

 

"Something like," Tafv agrees with a sigh. It's more than just giving up payment, it's also a blow to their reputation to not finish a job. Such things aren't irrecoverable, but that doesn't mean that any of them want to take the hit if they can avoid it.

 

But in all honesty, Desarr-Ka doesn't see another way. And the look on the captain's face says that he doesn't either.

 

Jarok is their responsibility now. They can't just... not help him.

 

"There is always a Starfleet ship patrolling the Neutral Zone," Tytha says, turning to the navigation console to pull up the proper charts. "They'd be the closest. We can make it there in half a day at maximum warp."

 

"Arizhel, lay in a course," Tafv says, a little reluctantly. "I'll figure out how to smooth things over with our buyer, and get the package ready for delivery to Starfleet. Tytha, wait until we're just outside sensor range before you contact the Starfleet vessel. I don't want them having time to call for backup, but we don't want to surprise them either. 'Ka, keep an eye on Jarok. If he gets worse, get Arizhel right away."

 

"He may wake up confused," Arizhel says, even as she moves to carry out the captain's orders. "Keep him calm and don't let him get up. The last thing we need is for him to fall over and hit his head _again_."

 

"I take back what I said before," Tytha says, casting a worried look over her shoulder at Tafv. " _This_ is the riskiest thing we've ever done."

 

"But it's worth it," Desarr-Ka adds.

 

She doesn't even hesitate. "Yes. It is."

 

The Orion heads back to crew quarters, a frown of concern on his face as he takes a seat on the edge of his bunk, next to his young Terran friend. Jarok's hands twitch repeatedly, despite his apparent lack of consciousness, and Desarr-Ka places his hands over the human's, hoping that his presence might be some form of comfort. "It's all right, _ngosazhecu_. We're getting help for you."

 

The Terran doesn't open his eyes, and the purposeless jerking motions of his hands continue. But he seems to relax slightly, perhaps calming at the touch, and so Desarr-Ka stays right where he is. He couldn't be anywhere else.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chief Medical Officer's personal log, stardate 2264.269. I really don't know how much more of this I can take. Crew morale is at rock fucking bottom, and I'm right there with them. Jim's been gone for over five months now. A hundred and sixty-four days, but really, who's counting? ...probably everyone._

_God, it's just... it's like there's a black hole on the bridge where he should be, some kind of void sucking all the goddamn life out of the entire ship. And no matter how much intel Spock gets, there's never a big flashing arrow saying "Your captain is this way!" or even any kind of clue where we might find one. Space is_ huge _. Ridiculously huge. I try not to think about it, but... we might never find him._

_I don't want to give up on him. I can't give up on him. I dragged his ass from the Grim Reaper's hands kicking and screaming, for Christ's sake. But every day we go out there and troll around and get a big fat load of nothing... I can't help but wonder what the hell we're doing. He could be anywhere. And I don't understand why he hasn't even tried to contact us. Not a blip. Something's really wrong, and damned if I know what the hell it is._

_God, Jim... where the hell are you?_

 

It almost feels like a dream, some waking nightmare that he can't escape. McCoy watches the days tick by, one by one. Where once he counted down the days until the _Enterprise_ would return home to Earth, now he dreads the day where they'll be ordered to abandon Kirk and move on with their lives. He doesn't even know how to _do_ that. The past nine years of his life have revolved around that pain in the ass of a captain, and McCoy misses him like he'd miss his right arm if it got amputated.

 

And the phantom pain of that metaphorical missing arm is dead on accurate, too. How many times has his heart leaped when he caught the sight of regulation-short blond hair, or seen someone with Jim's same height and build from the back? But every time, they turn, and it's not him, and the illusion is shattered.

 

_I don't know how much more of this I can take._

 

The whistle of the ship's intercom interrupts his thoughts, and he moves to answer the call on autopilot, not letting himself get his hopes up again. _It's not about Jim. It never is._ "McCoy here."

 

" _Spock here. Doctor, we have been approached for medical assistance by a vessel of unknown affiliation. A member of their crew is reportedly suffering long-term medical effects of a previous cranial injury and your services have been requested._ "

 

McCoy frowns at the intercom. Even this deep in his woes, his duty as a doctor comes first. It's almost easy, slipping into the role of a medical professional and letting training guide him, not needing to think. Something to do to distract him from his never-ending worry. Head injuries are no joke, and there are all kinds of things that can go wrong with a person. "What kind of long-term effects?"

 

" _Unknown. The vessel is being directed to dock with the_ Enterprise _. Please meet the security team in the shuttle bay. Do not enter unaccompanied._ "

 

Well, that's downright cryptic. But someone needs a doctor, and he can't just say no. It's not who he is.

 

McCoy grabs his field medkit on his way out of Medical. Whatever's wrong with his patient, if they need more specialized treatment, he's not restricted by what he can carry with him. "Nurse Chapel, prepare to receive a patient," he tells her as he heads through the door. "I'm heading down to assess the situation, but it doesn't sound immediately life-threatening."

 

"Understood, doctor."

 

The shuttle bay seems oddly small, the space now mostly filled by a monstrosity of a ship. The warp nacelles don't match, the hull is three different colors and made of five different materials, and the whole thing looks like a death trap. More than usual, anyway. The belly of the ship gapes open, a cargo ramp folded down from part of the hull, leading up to a cavernous space inside the vessel. A female Klingon stands at the top of the ramp, scowling down at the Starfleet officers milling around - or at least McCoy assumes she's scowling. It's hard to tell with those foreheads sometimes.

 

What really interests him is that she's holding a medical tricorder. Klingons aren't generally known for being into science of any sort, although he supposes there must be some, or they never would've made it to space. "You're the medic?" he asks, starting to move up the ramp before he jerks to a halt, remembering that he's supposed to wait for the security team.

 

"Yes," she growls, not entirely friendly, but making an effort not to be hostile, at least.

 

"I'm afraid I don't know much about Klingon anatomy," McCoy says apologetically. "But I'll do my best to help your crewman."

 

The Klingon growls, and bares her teeth. "He is Terran."

 

McCoy nearly drops his medkit from nerveless fingers, feeling like someone's just shot him through the heart. _Not again. Don't do this to yourself. What are the odds that it's actually him?_ He swallows, forcing himself to face the situation objectively, and behind him he vaguely hears the sounds of the security officers arriving. "All right, take me to him."

 

She leads them through the strange ship's cargo bay and down a narrow access corridor, the interior of the ship gritty and worn, well lived-in, almost nothing like the shining decks of the _Enterprise_. They pass through a claustrophobic engine room, and McCoy does a double-take at the sight of an empty hammock strung up in one corner, a few crates of personal belongings stashed nearby like someone's been _living_ down there.

 

But then they're passing through, ducking another low doorway, and a darkened room beckons. It's just light enough to make out the shape of an absolutely massive Orion sitting on the edge of a bunk, a smaller huddled figure taking up most of the space on the bunk itself. His patient, McCoy presumes.

 

The human is curled up on his side, facing away from the doctor, and it doesn't look like he's wearing much, giving McCoy a clear view of a raised burn scar on the nape of his neck, in the stylized shape of a bird. There's another jagged white scar on his back, off-center, almost like something tried to rip out his spine. McCoy tries not to get angry about that, but it's hard. This poor man, whoever he is, can't be a real crewman. Not when he's dressed and marked as a slave, and not the type that does manual labor either.

 

It's sickening. No one should ever be treated this way, branded and sold like an animal, and McCoy wonders which one of these fuckers purchased a _human fucking being_ to use him in the worst possible way a person can be used.

 

He vows right then and there that he'll do everything in his power to rescue this poor bastard. Even if his condition is treatable here, McCoy will find some excuse to take him to Sickbay, where they can't get him back. It has nothing to do with the fact that, once again, he's reminded of Kirk. The man's hair is the same color, his height looks about right, and his build is very similar. But it just can't be him. The odds would be astronomical. No, he'd do it for any poor soul in this man's position.

 

"The light was hurting his eyes," the Orion rumbles, his voice deep and cautious, eyeing the doctor warily.

 

McCoy ignores the fact that the alien is so close to him, letting the security folks worry about any danger. He has a patient, and that's his primary concern. Assess his condition, get him moved to Sickbay, then administer whatever treatment he needs. "What's his name?" the doctor asks, kneeling next to the bunk and setting his medkit on the floor to unpack his tricorder and penlight.

 

"We call him Jarok," the Orion says.

 

The human twitches at the sound of his name, but he doesn't make a sound. No moans, no groans, no questions or complaints. McCoy puts a hand on the man's shoulder, gently encouraging him to roll over on his back. "Hey Jarok, can you look at me for a minute? I just have to look you over."

 

The man lets out an odd sigh, but he doesn't fight it, uncurling a bit and turning enough for McCoy to see his face. The dim light is just enough to make out a pair of brilliant blue eyes, half open and slightly dazed, one starkly contrasted by a spectacular periorbital hematoma.

 

McCoy's breath catches in his throat, feeling like someone has sucker punched him in the gut. This Jarok guy looks exactly like Kirk. It _can't_ be.

 

But this time, _it actually is_.

 

"...Jim?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently cliffhangers are evil and I started a riot, so you guys get an extra chapter today. :P

_Where am I?_

 

Darkness, a shadow looming over him, a warm palm resting on his shoulder. A familiar soothing touch, though he can't quite place it. He relaxes a little, knowing that he's safe, even as confusion whirls in his head. Someone's talking, but he's strangely tired, letting waves of exhaustion carry him along on their currents, drifting in the gray.

 

_What happened?_

 

He frowns slightly, struggling to remember, fighting back the fog in his mind. He was on a... Romulan ship, that was it. _I don't remember coming back..._ But the gentle rumble underneath him means home, so he must be on the _Shadowbird_.

 

He feels strangely wrung-out, like someone took his brain and squeezed it out like a sponge, thunder pounding in his head. It doesn't feel like the same kind of headaches as before, but he can't quite place why, nor does he really feel like trying. All he wants to do is sleep, and with that familiar presence watching over him, he knows he's safe.

 

He drifts, unaware of the passage of time, until voices again rumble over him. And there's a strangely familiar drawl, jolting him towards awareness as he recognizes the language. For so long, he's been surrounded by alien tongues, forced to interpret in his own head to the point where lately he's even begun thinking and dreaming in Rihannsu. But this is _English_ , the first time he's heard the language spoken outside of his own thoughts since he woke in the hands of slavers.

 

The hand on his shoulder now isn't Desarr-Ka's. It's smaller, steady, almost anchoring him to the here and now. And weirdly familiar, like the flashes of memory he sometimes gets, the nagging feeling that he _knows_ this even when he can't place how or why. "Hey Jarok, can you look at me for a minute?" the voice asks, steady as his hands, thick with an accent he can't identify. "I just have to look you over."

 

He doesn't want to move, just wants to lie here quietly and rest, until he doesn't feel so out of sorts. But the voice sounds like Arizhel does when he's gone and gotten himself hurt again, and he doesn't want to risk the same kind of wrath for disobedience. So he sighs, summoning up enough energy to turn over on his back. The room is still mercifully dim, gentle against eyes heavy with exhaustion, and he looks up at the face of a Terran male who looks oddly pale in the shadows.

 

"Jim?" the man breathes in disbelief.

 

_Jim. A name... my name?_ But how would this Terran know his name? Unless...

 

His gaze wanders toward the man's chest. A blue uniform shirt, adorned with the golden arrowhead of Starfleet. _Starfleet? Here?_ It makes no sense, and something strange and warm bubbles up inside of him, almost choking him with a sense of relief so strong that it is absolutely baffling, tears stinging at his eyes. _Who are you? Why do I... feel like I know you?_

 

Memory whispers at the back of his mind, this same man's face, scowling perpetually at him, but with a strange air of fondness. Or staring down at him with naked concern, blood-streaked, hollering into a handheld communicator for a beam-out. Unshaven and rumpled, clenching at a shuttle seat with white-knuckled hands, loosening his grip only enough to pass over a silver flask.

 

_I've seen you in my dreams._

 

But he can't ask, his hands oddly reluctant to obey his commands, fingers twitching in nonsense. His brow pulls down in a frown, and he starts to gather his energy to make a stronger effort when chaos erupts in the darkened crew quarters.

 

Shouting in English, Orion, Rihannsu, all whipping over his head and blending together in a horrible cacophony of confusion, and he reels, clapping his hands over his ears and curling up on his side, overwhelmed by the sheer suddenness of it all, unable to focus past the noise drilling into his aching skull. He doesn't hear the hiss of a hypo against his neck, sending him tumbling into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Spock has always considered it a very human concept to not believe one's own senses when logic dictates there is no deception present. Yet when Doctor McCoy calls up to the bridge to report, the Vulcan finds himself momentarily assuming he must have misheard. Because it is incredibly improbable that in one hundred sixty-four days of searching for the captain's whereabouts, that the _Enterprise_ would simply stumble across him.

 

Yet apparently, this is precisely what has occurred.

 

" _Security's taking the crew into custody now,_ " McCoy says, his voice thick with disbelief. " _It's really him, Spock._ "

 

A very illogical feeling of satisfaction grips Spock for a moment, anticipating being able to interrogate those who have held Kirk captive these past five and a half months. To demand that they answer for their actions, holding him bound in servitude, away from his ship and crew. Yet he also finds that he does not care what their answers may be. There is no excuse for imprisoning and enslaving a sentient being against their will, particularly James T. Kirk.

 

But logic asserts itself shortly, and Spock recognizes that he still does not hold all the information required to make sense of the situation. If this smuggler ship, _Laehval'dhael_ , is crewed by those who have worked to hold the captain in slavery, why then would they approach the _Enterprise_ for medical assistance, knowing their deception would be discovered? But if they are _not_ responsible, why would Kirk not have contacted Starfleet of his own accord?

 

It is a mystery, one that will have to wait for the moment. "What is the captain's condition?" he asks instead, acutely aware that every ear on the bridge is listening intently to his conversation, and several crewmen appear to be holding their breaths in anticipation of McCoy's reply.

 

" _Not good,_ " McCoy replies, grim and concerned. " _I'm taking him to Sickbay now to run some tests. I'll let you know when there's news._ "

 

It is concerning that there is no specific information provided, but Spock understands that a proper analysis of the captain's health requires more time. And the doctor did not indicate that Kirk's condition is immediately life-threatening. So he must wait patiently, taking small comfort in the knowledge that the captain is finally, _finally_ held safely aboard the _Enterprise_ , regardless of his physical status. "Understood, doctor."


	19. Chapter 19

They've been looking for him for so long. Now that Kirk is _here_ , lying sedated on a biobed in Medical, McCoy can still hardly believe it. And while the monitors dutifully register his heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, and a dozen other vital signs, he can't quite pull his fingers away from the strong pulse thrumming through Kirk's wrist.

 

_He's here. He's alive. My God, this is actually real._

 

"He looks different," Chapel whispers from behind him, reminding him that he's not alone.

 

McCoy straightens and clears his throat, trying his damndest to pull himself back together, to be a doctor. Kirk needs them right now. Finally, after more than five months of waiting, he can _do something_. "I want a full workup on him. We don't know what all he's been through but he's had at least one head injury." Even if Spock hadn't mentioned it, it's hard to miss the scar, disrupting hair growth in a narrow line across the side of Kirk's head.

 

He starts there, changing his tricorder to its most sensitive setting. What he finds is concerning. There are some signs of recent epileptic activity, scarring on the captain's temporal lobe, and evidence of a healed skull fracture, damage old enough that it must have happened shortly after he went missing. _I'll have to talk to their medic, that Klingon gal... find out what symptoms he's had._ He didn't exactly get a chance to ask her earlier. The security officers had arrested the entire crew the moment McCoy positively identified his patient as their missing captain.

 

The black eye, at least, is as benign as it looks. No orbital fractures, no broken nose, just a plain old run-of-the-mill hematoma. He's treated Kirk for dozens of the damn things since he's known the man.

 

McCoy moves his scan further down Kirk's body, focusing on what lies beneath the waxy, parallel lines on his neck, deliberate and straight like surgical scars, wounds as old as the head injury. What he finds is sickening. "My God... they cauterized his recurrent laryngeal nerves. On purpose," he says out loud, horrified. It's one thing to have to cut into a patient to remove something harmful, or to repair damage that is otherwise inaccessible. This is different. It was a calculated act of cruelty, with no other purpose but to cause harm. _No wonder he wasn't saying anything... he physically can't._

 

Fortunately, whoever did this didn't damage the nerves low enough to compromise Kirk's ability to breathe or swallow, but it's a very small comfort. Even after centuries of medical science working on the problem, nerve damage is still one of the hardest things to heal well, and this injury is months old. At this point, before any treatment, it's impossible to estimate how much vocal function Kirk is likely to regain.

 

The other scars that the captain's gained since his disappearance, including the brand on the back of his neck, are all surface damage only, thankfully. Too old to erase completely, but at least they aren't indicative of any other lasting injury. And as far as his overall physical condition goes, he's clearly been eating well enough, and getting sufficient exercise, to the point where he's in better shape than he was at his bi-annual physical nine months ago. Nor is there any evidence he's been sexually abused.

 

"At least they've been taking good care of him," McCoy mutters under his breath. It doesn't make sense, but he can't be ungrateful about that, at least.

 

"Christine, help me get him changed and prepped for a nerve regen treatment. We'll probably need to do a few sessions before we'll know how much it'll help in the long run, but he's lost too much time already." The sedative should keep Kirk down for another hour or so, at which point they'll have to figure out how to do cognitive tests when the patient can't respond verbally.

 

_I'll need to find a padd he can use to write..._ An inelegant solution, but it'll have to do. And he's very carefully not thinking about how much he misses the sound of Kirk's voice. He hasn't heard it in far too long.

 

McCoy stands next to the biobed, and reaches out to touch that pulse point in Kirk's wrist again, his own heart twisting in his chest. "Good to see you again, Jim," he whispers, still hardly able to believe that this is really happening.

 

Kirk's been badly hurt, but he's alive, and he's _here_. For now, that'll have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

This is not the _Shadowbird_.

 

He knows it before he even opens his eyes. The rumbling beneath his body is familiar, but it's not the same. It's deeper, more elegant somehow. But there's more to it. A rhythmic beeping sound, in perfect time with his heart. The occasional sound of footsteps, their faint echoes indicating a room much bigger than any on the _Shadowbird_. Voices speaking in English, muffled through the walls or muttered quietly on the other side of the room.

 

What he _doesn't_ hear is any of his shipmates.

 

Jarok opens his eyes cautiously, greeted by a spotless white ceiling, and he slowly turns his head to look around the room, wary in case he's being watched. He's in some kind of medical bay, lying on one biobed among many, though he's the only patient here at the moment. There's an open door that seems to lead to some kind of office, and that's where the muttering is coming from. And now that he's listening, he recognizes the weirdly familiar drawl that belongs to the Terran man with the worried frown. _A doctor? Or maybe he's guarding the place... or me._

 

Either way, it sends a shiver of concern up his spine that none of his friends are here. He'd even take Arizhel right now, grumpy and growling about how weak Terrans are and how he needs so much looking after. _Where are they?_

 

_Where am_ I _?_

 

He lifts his head a little to look down at himself. His slave clothes are gone, replaced by a thin white shirt and pants, his feet left bare. His normal clothes are nowhere to be seen either, which means none of his shipmates have been here. They would have brought him his scarf, at least, so he could cover his brand.

 

_Am I a prisoner?_ But he isn't tied down. Maybe they're assuming he's still incapacitated. He still feels a bit strange, not quite himself, but his headache is back to the usual painless pressure in his head, and his body obeys his commands to move just as well as it normally does.

 

He might not have any better chance to escape.

 

He sits up carefully, keeping an eye out for signs of anyone approaching, and reaches up to poke at the biobed's settings, his fingers knowing exactly how to rig the system so it won't blare an alarm the moment he's out of its sensor field. It's easy, like he's done this dozens of times. And while normally he'd try to dig down into his fragmented memories and figure out why, right now he has only one priority. _Find my crew._

 

He quietly slips off the biobed, the deck cold under his feet, and he heads for the other door in the medical bay, knowing without being told that it's the way out. It slides open at his approach, letting him walk out into a gleaming white corridor that's nothing at all like the _Shadowbird_ , yet still somehow familiar.

 

_I've been here before._

 

He knows it as certainly as he knows the _Shadowbird_ 's engine room, even if he doesn't know when or why he was here. _If I know this ship... I might know where they'd keep my shipmates._ He just has to trust that his feet know where to go, the way his hands know how to do so much else.

 

But he has to hurry, before they realize he's missing.

 

Jarok squares his jaw and sets off, striding deeper into the bowels of the strangely familiar ship.


	20. Chapter 20

_I knew this wouldn't go smoothly._

 

Tafv has been in a lot of prison cells in his life. Held captive by the Romulan government, border patrol, planetary authorities, even Federation custody once or twice. But this is his first time in a Starfleet brig.

 

It's not terribly small, all things considered. But it's almost blindingly white and clean, one wall covered with a transparent barrier that makes him feel like a caged animal, constantly being watched by the security officer outside at the console in the center of the circular main room. From this angle, Tafv can't see into the cells immediately next to his, but he can hear Arizhel cursing up a storm to his left, and he can just barely see Tytha two cells down from his, which means Desarr-Ka must be on his other side.

 

Smart of Starfleet to separate them, too. There's no way to talk to each other without shouting, which means they can't plan anything in secret. And the curve of the room isn't great enough for line of sight, so they can't even use Terran Sign, assuming it would even be safe to use here among the species that invented it.

 

He's not angry at them for being cautious. But he _is_ angry that things were going smoothly up until the point where Starfleet realized that Jarok was Terran.

 

What makes them think they have any claim on _his_ crewman, just because he's the same species as them? What gives them the right? Jarok has been part of the _Shadowbird_ 's crew for nearly half a Terran year, and he's never given any indication he's unhappy there. He's a valuable crew member, damaged or not. He's _theirs_ , and it has nothing to do with the bill of sale in Desarr-Ka's personal locker.

 

Tafv sits on the narrow bench in his cell, fuming. Going to Starfleet was a risk, and they all knew it. And if Jarok gets the professional medical help he needs, even temporary incarceration is worth it. But there has to be a way out for all of them, one that doesn't involve his _paectum_ being kidnapped and everyone else getting locked away in a deep, dark Federation prison. From what Jarok has been able to tell them so far, the Terran's already been through enough before he came to work on the _Shadowbird_. He doesn't deserve to be abducted again, taken away from the people who care whether he lives or dies.

 

There's movement outside his cell, on the other side of the glass, and he looks up to see a Vulcan in commander's stripes, his expression stoic and unreadable as he gazes around the brig, presumably meeting the eyes of each prisoner in turn. "I am Commander Spock, acting captain of the USS _Enterprise_. Which one of you is the captain of the _Laehval'dhael_?" His pronunciation of the Romulan language is stilted and formal, much as Tafv would expect from a Vulcan.

 

He stands, stepping up to the edge of the transparency, his nose inches away from the barrier. "I am. Tafv Merrok." He keeps his chin raised, defiant, daring this distant cousin of his people to challenge him. "What have you done with my crewman?"

 

The Vulcan disregards the question, continuing as if Tafv had never asked it. "You are aware, of course, that slavery and all forms of indentured servitude are illegal in Federation space."

 

"Jarok isn't our slave," Tytha interjects, pressing blue hands against the barrier as she leans close, watching the two of them speak. "He's a member of the crew."

 

"He is being held against his will," Commander Spock says.

 

"How do you know?" Desarr-Ka demands, and though Tafv can't see him, he can imagine the look of outrage on the big Orion's face. "Did you ask him? Can your people even communicate with him?"

 

There's a truly impressive string of Klingon invectives from Arizhel's cell. "Your _doctor_ drugged him senseless and dragged him away," she snarls. "We came to you for assistance and offered technology your Starfleet did not even know existed, and this is how you repay us, with this cowardly and dishonorable act!"

 

Tafv is somewhat satisfied to see a crack in the Vulcan's maddening calm, a subtle furrow in his brow, clearly not expecting this much resistance to his questioning. Or perhaps it is their answers he didn't expect. "The abduction of a sentient being for the purpose of enslaving that entity is dishonorable."

 

"We didn't abduct him," Desarr-Ka protests, defiant, proud. "I bought him because he would have been killed otherwise, and I don't regret that purchase for one moment. I have no love of slavery. I've been under the master's lash myself. But I am no slave, and neither is Jarok. He is our shipmate and our friend."

 

The Vulcan's eyebrow rises sharply toward his hairline. "He was taken from your vessel wearing the garments of a slave used for sexual gratification, bearing injuries consistent with physical abuse. And while I do not have the specific details from Doctor McCoy, I have been informed that his ability to speak appears to be compromised, a common practice in Romulan space to keep slaves in intimate positions from relaying secrets to others."

 

Oh. Well, when he puts it _that_ way, Tafv can see how this looks bad. A small amount of his anger drains away, and he puts a more reasonable expression on his face, for all the good it'll do, talking to a Vulcan. "He was silenced before we met him, and the bruise at his eye was obtained in an altercation in a tavern. No one on my ship would ever hurt him."

 

"His clothing was part of his role in stealing the cloaking device we delivered to you," Tytha adds, managing to smile, always the peacemaker. "I assure you, he does not make a habit of dressing that way."

 

The Vulcan clasps his hands behind his back, still looking skeptical. "Perhaps. Yet you still strip him of his rightful name."

 

Tafv frowns. "He can't tell us what his name was. We don't even know if he remembers it."

 

Commander Spock stares at him, and a flicker of disbelief is momentarily visible on his face. "You do not recognize him."

 

"...recognize him?" Desarr-Ka repeats, sounding surprised and a little wary. This sounds like some kind of trap, and Tafv can't imagine where it leads. Terrans often look alike, and he's seen dozens that look roughly the same as their youngest crewmate.

 

"Your 'Jarok,'" Spock says, watching them carefully, "is James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the USS _Enterprise_."

 

_Kirk?_ Tafv has heard of this Terran before. A young upstart who rose to power during the dishonorable Nero's assault on Vulcan and Earth. An inexperienced warrior who nonetheless succeeded in avenging his father's murder. A hero of the Federation. Commander of Starfleet's starship. Captain of the very same vessel on which they are now imprisoned.

 

And, apparently, the finest engineer Tafv has ever employed onboard the _Shadowbird_.

 

How is _that_ possible?

 

Tafv is no diplomat. But antagonizing the commander will do little good, particularly if Jarok truly is his captain. So he clears all traces of hostility from his face, as much as he can, anyway. "Commander Spock, this seems to be a terrible misunderstanding. Perhaps we should start again."

 

"Yes," the Vulcan agrees, but there is no warmth in his voice, his face seemingly carved from stone. "We should."


	21. Chapter 21

He knows these halls.

 

Echoes from a dream made real, solid and white around him, gleaming floors stretching out in endless loops throughout the ship, and he knows without being told that this part of the ship is one massive circle, leading back endlessly upon itself. And there are people _everywhere_ , wearing that emblem of Starfleet on their uniform shirts in red, blue, and gold. More than one officer does a double-take when they see him, but he resists the urge to run, or to look at them, striding along like he belongs here, projecting confidence that he doesn't feel, his gut twisting with nervousness.

 

_This isn't going to work for long._

 

At least on the bird of prey, he was beneath notice. Here, he feels like he has a big white target painted across him, and shocked whispers break out behind him, following him wherever he goes. There's no way he'll make it to wherever his crew is being kept, not when he's drawing this much attention. He has to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he can stop and think, and figure out what to do next.

 

Jarok ducks into a turbolift and rides it up two decks, like he's done it countless times, stepping out onto a much quieter level of the ship, the corridor lined with doors. One slides open as he passes, and he changes course to dart inside, barely glancing at the brass nameplate next to the door long enough to read it. _Captain's quarters._

 

The darkened room lights up as the computer registers his presence, and he stops dead in the center of the floor, an eerie shiver running up his spine.

 

_I've been here before._

 

Everything is coated in a fine layer of dust, like nobody's been here for a long time. The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled and tossed aside, and a real paper-bound book sits on the pillow, a bookmark jammed between two pages, waiting for the reader to return and pick up where they left off. Dozens of other real books line a shelf above the bed, and a stack of padds sit on the low bedside table, accompanied by an empty glass, never returned to the recycler.

 

Other shelves along the walls are decorated with random items, mementoes of travels across the galaxy, and the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up as recognizes each one, even if he can't recall the exact circumstances in which they came to be here. A bottle of brandy, given as a gift. A dried herb bundle, used for some kind of spiritual cleansing ceremony. A wooden, hand-carved figurine of an animal, given as a gesture of friendship. Endless other trinkets, each one familiar, its meaning just beyond his grasp.

 

He forces himself to move, his bare feet following faint paths worn into the carpet from years of being walked on. A touch of the hand on a hidden door, and the wall slides open, revealing a rack of identical golden uniform shirts, each sleeve ringed with three silver bands, and his breath catches in his chest, thoughts whirling in stark confusion. _Those are mine._

 

This makes no sense. He's a criminal. Jarok knows that; he remembers countless fragments of being under arrest, over years and _years_ of breaking the law. But this is a Starfleet vessel. The _captain's_ quarters. Which means these are the captain's shirts. How can they be his?

 

But he remembers wearing these shirts, the silver bands weighing comfortably on his wrists, the black collar snug against the base of an unmarked throat. Every day, putting on the same uniform, resting easily on broad shoulders. Years and years of it. It's the reason he's so drawn to wearing yellow, the reason why the bracelet he bought on Khazara colony makes him feel more complete, his bare wrist feeling naked now without it.

 

Criminal. Captain. Both?

 

_How?_

 

He closes the door in the wall, hiding the uniforms from view, following the path in the carpet to another door on the far side of the room. It slides aside, revealing a clean bathroom, free of the dust that lightly coats the captain's quarters. Two sets of toiletries sit next to the sink, one recently used, the other gently pushed to one side like a lingering reminder of someone who is now gone, the pain too recent to remove the signs of their presence.

 

And there's another door, identical to the one just opened, sliding open at his approach. A wave of dry heat rolls through the door, smelling faintly of exotic spices and extinguished smoke. The lights on this side of the door don't come up as brightly as the captain's quarters, but it's enough for him to see a sparsely decorated room, meticulously clean and bare, very little of interest on display. However, on a low table there is a checkered board with multiple vertical levels, game pieces placed deliberately on various squares, like someone was halfway through a game and then was called away.

 

It feels strangely like he's intruding on a sacred space, so he steps backward, letting the door slide closed again, turning back to the captain's quarters.

 

_My quarters?_

 

It feels right, even though he can't understand how this makes any kind of sense. But as he looks around the room, he knows what he will see before his eyes fall on it. A touch of the controls next to a blackened portion of the wall removes a digital shade, revealing brilliant star-touched velvet, a viewport looking out into the depths of space. His fingers know the exact sequence to press on the synthesizer in the wall, producing a steaming mug of something brown that smells similar to raktajino. A flashing light on the desk indicates an audio log that needs review before finalization, and when he touches the playback control, he nearly jumps out of his skin as a voice begins speaking.

 

" _Captain's Log, stardate 2264.105. The_ Enterprise _has just completed a twenty-day voyage to chart unusual spatial anomalies near the Romulan Neutral Zone..._ "

 

The voice continues, but the content of the message doesn't interest him. That's _his_ voice. He hasn't heard it in months, only capable of a few moments of speech before his voice was stolen away from him, and he reaches a lightly trembling hand to touch the scars on his throat. _I'd forgotten what I sounded like._

 

It's undeniable now, mind-boggling and difficult to accept. Wherever he is, whatever the circumstances that led him away, he is the captain of this vessel. Somehow.

 

_No wonder it seems so familiar._

 

He turns off the recording, unwilling to listen further, not needing more proof. He's still struggling to accept this sudden, massive shift in his understanding of the universe. He's a slave and a criminal... but more than that, now. Or at least, he was.

 

He hesitates, then sits down at the desk, wiping a layer of dust from the viewscreen. _If I'm the captain, I must have access to my own history files,_ he reasons. He frowns, and pulls up the personnel files for the USS _Enterprise_ , her name sending a deep spike of pain through his head, an immense weight of responsibility and belonging, of grief and hope, of _home_.

 

He presses the heel of his hand into his eye, trying forcing the headache down to a dull throb. It's not quite threatening to turn into a migraine, but he can't risk it getting worse. _Not yet... I have to remember._

 

He squints against the brightness of the screen, and begins to read.


	22. Chapter 22

_I turned my back for all of ten minutes!_

 

McCoy stands in the doorway of his office, staring at the empty biobed in disbelief. It isn't the first time Kirk has sneaked out of Sickbay, but for _God's sake_. The man's been gone for months and his body says he's been through hell, is it _that_ unreasonable to want to keep him under medical observation until the doctor knows how bad the _actual goddamn brain damage_ is?

 

The fact that Kirk didn't stay put would be in character for the captain under normal circumstances, but this is hardly normal. Even Kirk doesn't hate Sickbay and doctors enough that he'd avoid the chance to see his best friend after months of being kidnapped and enslaved. And he should know how serious his condition is, and the need for actual medical attention from someone who knows human anatomy instead of a Klingon taking her best guess.

 

Which means there's something else going on, and there's a cranial scan that gives McCoy a good idea what's responsible, at least.

 

"Computer, locate Captain Kirk," he says.

 

The computer, however, immediately returns with an error. "Captain Kirk's location is unknown."

 

_Of course it is. He doesn't have his communicator._ McCoy goes straight to the intraship intercom. "McCoy to Spock."

 

The reply takes a moment, and the computer indicates the call is being taken in the brig. " _Spock here. Has there been a change in the captain's condition?_ "

 

McCoy resists the urge to sigh in frustration. "Yeah, you could say that. Jim's gone AWOL, and I still don't know how cognizant he actually is. I need you to put out a shipwide alert on him. I don't want anyone trying to bring him in; that might freak him out. Just find him, and let me know where he is."

 

There's a pause as Spock processes that. " _Understood._ "

 

But McCoy can't just sit around and wait for news to come to him, not anymore. Especially not with Kirk actually onboard, probably confused, maybe in pain. So even as Spock's voice begins to broadcast over the _Enterprise_ 's shipwide intercom, the doctor grabs his field kit and takes to the corridors, hunting for any sign of Kirk's passage.

 

Several crewmen approach him immediately, concerned about their wayward captain, last seen escaping into the turbolift. McCoy makes some noises of reassurance on autopilot, without any real clue what he's saying, his mind only focused on one thing: getting to Kirk and doing whatever he can to help his friend.

 

_Okay, so he's not on this deck anymore. Where would he go?_

 

The bridge would normally be the most likely suspect, but any officer on the bridge would have called Medical the moment the captain stepped foot on Deck One, so he can't be there. The brig is out too; if Kirk had gone there to check on his alien captors, Spock would've said so, of course. And while the officer's lounge and observation deck have always been some of Kirk's favorite places on the _Enterprise_ , it's unlikely he would have gone there wearing nothing more than scrubs.

 

It seems really unlikely that the captain would go _anywhere_ without proper clothing, actually. If only because it makes it more blatantly obvious at a glance that he's an escapee from Sickbay. Which means there's really only one destination that makes any kind of sense.

 

McCoy rides the turbolift up to Deck Five, where officer's quarters ring the center of the saucer. The captain's quarters haven't been touched since his disappearance - not sealed off, as if he'd died, but left alone out of respect, and because of a crew that did not want to believe that their captain wasn't going to return.

 

This hour of the day, Deck Five is pretty quiet, the day shift already at their posts and the night shift deep in slumber. So there's no one around to ask if they've seen Kirk pass through. But there's really only one room he needs to search.

 

McCoy triggers the door chime at the captain's quarters and waits, wishing that Kirk's familiar voice will respond with "It's open!" like he always did, regardless of whether or not the captain was decent. But there's nothing but silence, and the door stays closed. Either he's not there... or he is, and he's not answering, not even to open the door manually.

 

"Medical override, authorization McCoy Delta Six-Three-Five," he tells the computer, and the door to the captain's quarters slides open with a whisper.

 

The lights are on inside.

 

McCoy cautiously steps through the doorway. "Jim? Are you all right?" It's a fucking stupid question, and he knows that before he even asks it. Clearly he's _not_ , and it's not like he can answer anyway. But if the side effects of the head injury have made Kirk confused or disoriented, he doesn't want to spook the poor bastard.

 

He doesn't immediately see the captain, but the dust has been disturbed, so he's got to be around here somewhere. "Jim?" McCoy calls again, and this time he spots movement out of the corner of his eye.

 

Kirk is seated at the desk on one side of the room, half-hidden behind the display screen, regarding the doctor with wary blue eyes. The dazed look is mostly gone, but there's something not quite right about the way Kirk is looking at the doctor, an odd uncertainty and skittishness, like a wild animal poised to flee after being startled by a predator.

 

McCoy stops, and raises his hands slightly, trying to look harmless. Yeah, he's holding a medkit, but it can't even remotely be mistaken for a weapon. He has no idea what Kirk has been through, what might set him off that didn't before, so the less surprises he springs on the captain, the better. "It's all right, Jim, it's just me."

 

Kirk's eyes narrow at him, but he doesn't move, watching the doctor. And McCoy hadn't realized until now just how horrible the silence would be, preventing him from having any real idea what Kirk is thinking or feeling. Surprisingly, the captain hasn't traded his scrubs for real clothes, apparently finding something more important to do at his desk.

 

"What're you doing?" McCoy asks, taking a few slow, cautious steps towards Kirk, still trying to feel out what's gotten into the captain's head.

 

Kirk frowns, and hesitates, before rotating the display screen a little so McCoy can see it. It's his personnel file from the _Enterprise_ 's computer, scrolled partway through his own personal history. _Why would he be looking at that?_

 

He can think of some possibilities, and he doesn't like a single one of them. "Jim... you _do_ know your own name, right?"

 

Kirk looks a little exasperated, and points to the screen where it says JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK in black and white, right next to the official portrait of himself in dress grays, smiling confidently at the camera under the shaded brim of his cover. The reality is a stark contrast, Kirk looking oddly fragile in white scrubs, scarred and bruised, a sharp look in his eye. But just as McCoy is beginning to relax a little, reassured that the captain's at least managed to pass the most basic of neurological tests, Kirk lifts a hand to trace the scar on the side of his head, and makes a strange but deliberate gesture, like wiping imaginary sweat off his forehead, ending in a closed fist.

 

_Uh-oh._ The motion clearly has meaning intended behind it, and Kirk's looking at him expectantly, but McCoy doesn't have the foggiest idea what that was supposed to mean. "Yeah, I know you hit your head," he replies, taking a guess.

 

Kirk frowns again, and his expression sours further when McCoy takes one of the padds from the captain's bedside table and offers it to him. "Might be easier if you type out messages for the time being," McCoy suggests, unsure what is bothering him about it. Kirk snatches the padd out of his hand and furiously types for a moment before all but throwing it back at the doctor, and McCoy is baffled when he sees the screen. It's absolute gibberish, nothing recognizable as words at all, capped off with a semicolon and a left parenthesis, making up a sad face.

 

_Jesus, he can't even write?_ McCoy's heart sinks, and he looks up to meet Kirk's frustrated blue eyes. The captain holds up both his hands this time, and makes a slow, deliberate series of gestures. He points at himself, then holds his left hand flat and uses his right to almost spring off it, closing his fingers together as he taps them against the side of his head. His left hand closes in a fist, facing towards the floor, and he touches two fingers of his right hand to the back of his left, all the other fingers splayed. Finally, he waves his index fingers at each other before letting them drift apart, extending his thumbs.

 

It's too focused and intentional to be random gestures, and although McCoy doesn't have any idea what they're supposed to mean, realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning. _That's sign language._ And he's fairly certain that Kirk didn't know it before he was taken, which means that he's _learned_. And if he still has the cognitive ability to do that, it's actually a great sign.

 

"Hang on a sec," McCoy says, going for the intercom. "McCoy to Uhura. How's your Terran Sign?"

 

The relative immediacy of her reply is a credit to her training and professionalism. They've asked her weirder things out of context over the last several years, after all. " _Rustier than I'd like, but passable._ "

 

"Fantastic. I need you in the captain's quarters on the double. And contact Spock; let him know I found Jim."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give thanks to [HandSpeak](http://www.handspeak.com) and [ASL University](http://asluniversity.com) for their fantastic online visual dictionaries. Every sign that Kirk makes has its origin in one of these sites.
> 
> I do not have any personal experience with Sign, so if I write something inaccurate or offensive, I do apologize. ASL grammar is different from English, and I have tried to portray that as accurately as possible. Kirk's vocabulary is also limited since he's only been signing for a few weeks, and all his learning has been via computer, so he may sometimes sign inaccurately or combine signs in atypical ways to get across ideas.

Uhura. He feels like he should know the name, confused at the weird flicker of amusement he feels at hearing it, like there should be more to it. Some kind of private in-joke he once knew.

 

Jarok... Jim? ...sits at the desk and watches the doctor, wary of this familiar stranger. It's confusing, not wanting to put blind trust in these Terrans because of scattered fragments of memories that say he should, but those fragments are _powerful_ , undeniable, splinters of a life he now knows was lived on this ship, the USS _Enterprise_. His ship. Which means they're his crew.

 

And that includes this man, the Terran with the eerily familiar drawl and a concerned frown just about permanently etched into his face. A man whose name he can't remember, only one word coming to mind when he tries to remember it: _bones_.

 

It's not a real name, but it'll have to do.

 

After all, it's not like the doctor's introduced himself. Why would he, if they know each other already?

 

The doctor is giving him a cautious kind of look, like he's not sure Jim isn't going to disappear. _Because of me sneaking out of the medical bay, or because I was... gone for so long?_ Either way, he feels a weird pang of guilt about it, and before he thinks about it, he raises his fist to his chest to sign _sorry_.

 

"Sorry, Jim," Bones says, pulling a face. "I never learned Terran Sign. Uhura'll be here in a minute. Then I've got some questions for you."

 

Great. Questions. He nods, and tries not to look too frustrated. He can't remember everything, even though he clearly gets the feeling that he used to know Bones pretty well, and the doctor looks uneasy too, probably able to tell that something's off between them, even if Jim hasn't been able to tell him why.

 

The door chimes suddenly, the same way it did before Bones came in, and the doctor moves to open it. A woman in Starfleet reds walks in, her face one of many that he's seen in his dreams and the small pieces of memories he's managed to unearth, and her beautiful dark eyes widen in shock as her gaze falls on him. Whether it's because of who he is or because of the state he's in, he can only guess. "Captain. It's great to see you."

 

 _Captain_. He still can't quite believe it, like it's some kind of elaborate prank everyone's playing on him. But the way she says it, it strikes a chord in him somewhere, something that settles the weight of responsibility across his shoulders and a strange, warm feeling in his heart. He nods to her, though he can't quite summon a smile, an uncommon nervousness twisting in his gut. He's not used to being around people who know more about himself than he does, and he finds himself not wanting to disappoint them by doing or saying something wrong.

 

"Jim can't talk right now," Bones explains to Uhura, and her eyes fill with sympathy. "But apparently he's picked up some sign language along the way."

 

 _Learning,_ he signs immediately, not wanting her to get the idea he's fluent. He's only been practicing for a handful of weeks, and his learning material's been filtered through Rihannsu first - not exactly the typical way of picking up a language, he's pretty sure. _Sign little._

 

"Oh," Uhura says, momentarily putting a hand to her mouth, her eyes bright. "It's okay, captain."

 

 _I wonder how weird this is for her... she has to translate alien languages all the time, and now she's the only one who can understand me._ Aside from the crew of the _Shadowbird_ , that is. And don't think he's forgotten about them, either. Once he satisfies Bones' curiosity and gets some real clothes on, there won't be a power in the universe that can stop him from finding his crew.

 

He doesn't stop to think about the fact that he knows she's the main translator on the ship. It just makes sense to him, with the fragments of memory he has of her, and there's no other real reason he can think of that she specifically would be called to help him communicate. He _knows_ this, the same way he knows how to fix engines and hack into security systems. The same way he knew the way to his quarters, or how to rig the biobed, and countless other things.

 

"Jim, you were trying to tell me something earlier?" Bones prompts, and Jim nods, repeating the sign he'd used when the doctor asked about him reading his own file. _Forget._

 

"Forget?" Uhura asks, puzzled. "Forget what?"

 

He points to himself, and his gaze can't help but be drawn back to his file, still displayed on the screen, accompanied by that photo of himself in a formal Starfleet uniform. Unscarred, uniformed, _happy_. It's so familiar and alien all at once, something he doesn't remember but knows deep in his heart that it's true.

 

Even Bones doesn't need Uhura to translate that one, and he looks appalled, an expression of shocked understanding crossing his face. "Retrograde amnesia? Jim, did you know your name _before_ you read it in your file?"

 

He shakes his head, relief gripping him as they _finally_ get it. He's not even sure the crew of the _Shadowbird_ fully understand how messed up his head is, even if he is in better shape now than he was when Desarr-Ka bought him. _Remember some now,_ he signs, making sure Uhura can see his hands.

 

"He says he's managed to remember a bit," she translates, her dark eyes shining with restrained tears. He ducks his head a little, uncomfortable at how upset he's making her, even though he knows it's nobody's fault. "No wonder you never tried to contact the _Enterprise_ ," she adds, and he nods in agreement, rubbing his fist in a circle against his chest.

 

"You did that one before," Bones says, clearly recognizing the gesture. "What's it mean?"

 

"It means he's sorry," Uhura says, and before Jim can think to pull away, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him in a hug. He freezes for a moment, unsure what to do, unable to remember if this is something she does a lot. "It's not your fault, captain," she murmurs in his ear, and he hesitantly returns the hug, relaxing a little. She hugs like Tytha does, reassuring and warm, and he closes his eyes for a moment, part of him still struggling to accept that this is real and not some kind of sick joke.

 

If nothing else, he's starting to believe that they really do have his welfare at heart. He can see it in their eyes, and there's no faking the compassion he felt when Uhura embraced him, the natural way his rank falls from her lips, the familiarity of his name - his real name, apparently, so close to the name his shipmates gave him - coming from the doctor.

 

Bones looks stricken, and Jim is certain that if they weren't friends, surely the doctor wouldn't seem this anguished by his condition. "How'd you know where your quarters were?"

 

Good question, and something he's come to wonder himself, with all the things his hands know without conscious memory. He shrugs, and then signs, _my body know sometimes_. He can't explain it, any more than he can explain the specifics of what he does with the _Shadowbird_ 's engines most days. He just _knows_.

 

"Episodic memory is stored separately from procedural memory," Bones says once Uhura relays his answer, raising his eyebrows. "Muscle memory and habits aren't something consciously remembered the same way as recalling personal experiences."

 

Jim nods, and even though he hasn't been asked specifics, he figures this question is coming soon anyway. _My job fix engine, computer_ , his hands say. _Same_.

 

"You're their engineer?" Uhura asks, and she seems surprised, though he isn't sure why.

 

 _I guess if I'm the captain, I didn't do a lot of hands-on work myself, but I must've had other training._ And he still gets the occasional memory here and there of watching the nearly incomprehensible man in red, a color he now recognizes as Starfleet's operations division. Not someone he's seen during his short walk through the halls of this ship, but surely one of the crew here.

 

Bones looks surprised too, and there's a hefty dose of relief on his face, something that Jim doesn't really understand. Is it because he's a slave? Maybe slaves don't usually hold such important positions on a ship, even one as small as the _Shadowbird_. "That's been your job the whole time you were with them?"

 

Jim nods, frowning a little. What else would he have been doing? He may have been the captain of this ship, the _Enterprise_ , but without his voice he can't exactly give orders. And that aside, the _Shadowbird_ is Tafv's ship anyway.

 

Either way, his headache is getting to the point where it can't be ignored anymore, and he winces, raising a hand to rub at the side of his head. He knows it won't do anything to help, but it feels better to do something than to just sit and suffer. The doctor, of course, notices immediately. "Does your head hurt?" he asks, pulling out a medical tricorder that looks a hell of a lot newer than the one Arizhel uses. Jim nods, and raises a finger pointing upward, spinning it in a wide circle.

 

"He said 'always,'" Uhura says, and she puts a warm hand on his shoulder, steady and comforting.

 

"Always this bad?" Bones asks, and he waves a blinking, whirring sensor next to Jim's head. The concerned frown matches so many scraps of memory he's regained, a doctor worried for the health of his captain... and his friend.

 

Jim shakes his head, but the headache isn't his main concern. It's not bad enough to incapacitate him yet, and he still doesn't know where the crew of the _Shadowbird_ are. _My friends where?_ he signs, meeting Uhura's eyes, almost daring her to try to deny him. They've been his crew, his family in all but name, for nearly as long as he can remember, since his memories and his voice were stolen from him. And even though his file says he's been captain of this ship for years, and they probably worried about him too, they're not the _only_ ones.

 

"They're in custody," Uhura tells him, visibly choosing her words carefully. "They're all right. We thought they were holding you prisoner. Spock's talking to them now."

 

 _Spock._ That's a Vulcan name, and not one but _two_ faces come to mind. One young, hair black, humanlike eyes dark, standing at his side in Starfleet blue, hands clasped behind his back. The other elderly, hair white and face lined with age, dressed in gray, his old eyes full of sadness and grief.

 

His head hurts more as those memories well up, pushing into his brain, and he grimaces, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. "Come on, Jim," Bones says, closing a steadying hand around his upper arm. "Let's get you back to Sickbay. They can come see you in a bit."

 

But Jim resists, squinting now against the light in his quarters, and he tugs his arm free so he can sign unimpeded. _Promise,_ his hands demand.

 

"I'll hold him to that," Uhura vows, and he knows without asking that she is not someone to be crossed. He can trust her to be true to her word. So he nods, and lets them usher him out of his quarters.

 

_I'll be back._

 

It's an oddly comforting thought.


	24. Chapter 24

_Amnesia. Jesus Christ, like Jim needed something_ else _wrong with him._

 

McCoy can't help but worry as he preps a hypo of painkiller for the captain, the signs of one humdinger of a headache clear on Kirk's face. The fact that he apparently has some level of pain twenty-four hours a day is another big concern. It can be managed, if not corrected, but it's pretty obvious that his original head trauma was never healed properly. Whether from neglect or malice is impossible to tell, and it hardly matters now.

 

Uhura guides Kirk to sit on the edge of the biobed where he belongs, and pulls up a chair, ready to help translate as necessary. It breaks McCoy's heart that she's needed for this, that Kirk isn't able to even write out his thoughts, but at least they _have_ a way for him to communicate. And at least Kirk doesn't look like he's ready to sneak off again, though whether that's because his head hurts too much or because McCoy promised to let the crew of criminals down in the brig come see him if he behaves, he can only guess.

 

He presses the hypo against Kirk's neck, and the captain lifts an open flat hand to his chin, before moving it straight away from his face. "That's 'thank you,'" Uhura tells McCoy, smiling a little. She's doing a spectacular job of hiding how much it bothers her to see Kirk like this, covering it well with genuine relief at having him back with them, after being lost for so long.

 

Kirk nods, though there's a weird uncertainty still in his eyes, like he's not sure he can trust them. _Well if his brain got scrambled all to hell, it's no wonder._ And McCoy abruptly realizes that Kirk probably doesn't have a clue who he is. "Sorry Jim, I wasn't even thinking. My name's Leonard McCoy."

 

The captain frowns a little, like he wasn't expecting that. He hesitates before he extends his index and middle fingers on both hands, tapping them together crossways. Then he crooks those same fingers and crosses his arms over his chest. Uhura looks startled, but hopeful. "Yes, that's right. You're the only one who calls him that, though."

 

She doesn't have to tell McCoy what Kirk must've just said, and there's an unexpected lump in his throat at the glimpse of his friend, under the surface of this silent stranger. _He knows he calls me Bones._ "You gave me that nickname the day we met and I could never get you to stop. I don't think you've _ever_ called me Leonard, actually." And God, he misses it. Sometimes over the years he's been annoyed at the constant chatter, but right now he'd give anything to hear Kirk talk his ear off again. "Jim... how much _do_ you remember?"

 

He can't keep up with distinguishing the rapid motions of Kirk's hands, but Uhura's attention is fixed on the captain, taking in everything and translating as he gestures. "Bits and pieces. Breaking the law... _lots_ of breaking the law," she corrects herself, as Kirk repeats the same gestures as before, throwing his arms a little wider for emphasis. "Sitting in jail. Faces of people, dreams, wearing yellow shirts with stripes... oh, your uniform," she realizes, and he nods, continuing to sign. "You thought you were a criminal."

 

Well, damn. Small wonder he hadn't tried to reach out to Starfleet or the Federation at all, even without his memory. "Jim, you had one hell of a troubled childhood, I'm not gonna lie," McCoy tells him. "I've never seen your criminal record myself but I know it's as long as my arm, and you've told me some pretty wild tales. Most of your files are sealed because you were underage for the majority of it. But you've been on the straight and narrow since you joined Starfleet, more or less."

 

Kirk frowns, but he nods, looking like he's considering that. It's probably one hell of a shock to assume you're an outlaw and find out you're Starfleet's most famous captain, and McCoy can't blame him for needing time to process it, particularly with the headache still rattling around in his head. "How's the pain?" McCoy asks, still seeing signs of it on Kirk's face.

 

Kirk taps a flat hand on his chin and swipes it sideways, closing his fingers so he's almost giving a thumbs up at the end of the gesture. "Better," Uhura translates, reaching over to pat the captain on the knee, smiling at him.

 

"Good. Let me know if it starts getting worse. I'd rather have you conscious until I'm sure what's going on in that thick skull of yours. And on _that_ subject, have you been having seizures before today?" McCoy asks, pulling out his tricorder to scan Kirk's head. The signs of epileptic activity in his temporal lobe have died down to the point where they're barely readable, but the fact that they existed at all is still concerning.

 

Kirk's bright blue eyes stare at him, wide with surprise, and he shakes his head. Then he shrugs, uncertain. He crooks his index finger facing outward, then taps all the fingertips of one hand against the wrist of the opposite hand. "He said 'ask the doctor,'" Uhura says, puzzled.

 

"The Klingon?" McCoy asks, and Kirk nods immediately. "I was planning on it. She's been treating you the whole time you were gone?"

 

The captain nods, but apparently realizes something else, because then he shakes his head. He points to the scar on the side of his head, then makes the wrist-tapping gesture again. He puts a closed right fist on top of his flattened left hand, palm down, and moves both together in a wide circle. Then both hands separated, all fingers pinched together, first pointed toward each other and then flipped outward.

 

Uhura has to struggle for a moment to come up with a translation for it, clearly something Kirk lacks the proper vocabulary to describe. "One of the slavers healed your head?" she guesses, and Kirk crooks his index and middle fingers on both hands, wiggling them around like quotation marks in the air. "They only sort of healed it," she corrects, and Kirk nods.

 

Well, that explains why there was such a half-assed job to patch him back up. The kind of neurosurgery required to even attempt proper treatment would have either been too expensive or too specialized for black market slavers to have access to. But Kirk isn't done yet, making a pained face. He points his index fingers at each other and twists both hands in opposite directions, then touches the slave brand on the back of his neck, and lifts his chin to bare the surgical scars on his throat. "The same one that hurt you," Uhura says, sounding rightly horrified.

 

McCoy is right there along with her. Any healer should be fucking ashamed to deliberately harm a patient, and this one's hurt Kirk twice. Three times, if you count leaving a severe head wound only half-healed. "I can't erase the scars, Jim, I'm sorry," McCoy says, and Kirk just looks a little sad as he nods, probably having expecting that. "But I might be able to do something for your voice," he adds, immediately regaining Kirk's undivided attention. "They cauterized the nerves that control nearly all the intrinsic muscles of the larynx; that's why you can't vocalize. Nerve regen is a tricky business, and the longer you wait, the harder it is to treat. I can't promise you'll get full function back, but I'll do my damndest to get you what I can. But you have to cooperate with me and do everything I tell you to do. The atrophy alone means you've got a lot of therapy in the foreseeable future."

 

Kirk makes a face, the way he always does when McCoy tells him he can't just hop on out of Sickbay and get back to work, but he nods, and his next gesture is one that the doctor has no trouble deciphering, using his index finger to draw a cross over his heart. "You'd better mean that," McCoy tells him, though he knows this is something Kirk isn't likely to skip out on. "And we'll work on your writing. You don't seem to have any trouble reading, right?" he asks, and is satisfied when the captain nods in agreement. "That's a good sign. It means your language processing isn't affected, just your ability to write. You might have to learn how all over again, but you've picked up Terran Sign pretty easily enough, so you've got a good shot at full recovery there."

 

The captain smiles slightly and nods, crossing his fingers on both hands. "We hope so too," Uhura says, smiling back at him. "I'm sure you'll be annoying us all again in no time."

 

McCoy is a little surprised to see Kirk laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, huffing out a nearly soundless breath. But it's pure _Jim_ , peeking out from underneath the endless eerie silence. He's still in there, amnesia or not. And McCoy will do his best to get his friend back, or he'll die trying.


	25. Chapter 25

To the Vulcan's credit, Commander Spock doesn't interrupt their story once, simply stands and listens intently as the crew of the _Shadowbird_ recount their side of the story. Desarr-Ka is still having a bit of a hard time with the knowledge that his silent little friend Jarok is actually the famed Captain James Kirk of Starfleet. _Would I have still bought him, if I'd known? Yes, probably._

 

But he has no doubt that it would have colored every interaction he had with the Terran, and he's somewhat glad that he hadn't known before. He's come to genuinely like and care for the man, getting to know the person instead of the reputation. Jarok has a good heart, strong and brave, and he's friendly and loyal to a fault. During his time on their little ship, he's flourished, carving out his own territory on the _Shadowbird_ and in the hearts of her crew.

 

Desarr-Ka had hoped that they could get Jarok the treatment he's needed for months, letting them go their own way, a permanent crew of five. But now... he can't see a path where Starfleet agrees to let the long-lost captain to go with them, whether Jarok - or rather, Kirk - wants to stay or not.

 

_Have they even asked him yet? Would his opinion matter if they have?_

 

That's assuming the Terran's even been conscious since the Starfleet doctor realized who he was. Desarr-Ka has seen severe headaches incapacitate Kirk for damn near an entire day more than once, and now Arizhel reports he's had a new kind of neural disruption this time. There's no telling what that's done to the poor Terran.

 

And it's not like Starfleet has let them see him.

 

"I will take your testimony under advisement," Commander Spock says stoically, once they've finished. "If Captain Kirk corroborates your version of events, the charges of kidnapping and enslavement of a sentient being will be dropped."

 

"How's he doing?" Desarr-Ka asks immediately. They've worried about their Terran friend for long enough with no news. Surely even a Vulcan wouldn't be heartless enough to leave them in the darkness on this matter.

 

Spock stares at him for a long moment. "I do not know," he says at last. And without another word, he turns sharply and strides out of the brig, leaving them alone again, save for the guard seated at the console in the center of the room.

 

And then there's nothing for a long, long time.

 

Desarr-Ka is no stranger to having to occupy himself during long stretches of downtime, but usually he can go find something to do. Cleaning and maintaining his weapons, playing a friendly game of cards with his shipmates, or lately, working on learning Terran Sign with Jarok. But stuck in a cell alone, there's little he can do but sit and wait, as patiently as possible.

 

It reminds him of his days as a gladiator, waiting in his pen before a match, feeling the anticipation build toward the moment where the gate would open and he would be released into the arena, unaware of what opponent he would face next until it was before him. Tafv had freed him from that short, glorious life before he met his end, in much the same way as he himself rescued Jarok from certain death. All he can do now is wait, and hope that Kirk is able to return the favor.

 

* * *

 

Jim gets the oddest feeling that he hasn't normally been this compliant with doctor's orders, because McCoy - who he still calls 'Bones' inside his head, anything else just seems weird - keeps looking surprised and a little suspicious when he obeys the doctor's commands without kicking up a fuss. Sit still, look here, count on your hands from one to ten, identify an object out of a lineup, and so on. It's all super simple stuff - basic cognitive tests, Bones calls it - but he's privately really pleased at passing them all so easily. For months, he's wondered if one day he'd be tripped up by something else his head injury took from him, besides his memory and ability to write. But so far, so good.

 

It's weird, though. Being in Sickbay, and on the _Enterprise_ in general, is giving him the worst case of déjà vu he thinks he's ever had. And everywhere he looks, there's something to trigger another fragment of memory. Watching a Vulcan, the young one whose face he links with the name _Spock_ , lying in a healing trance with an ancient bullet in his back. Walking into Bones' office to share his thoughts on a troubling issue, more than once. Sitting on a biobed, woozy and nauseous, his hands puffing up to twice their normal size.

 

It's so _frustrating_ , having the pieces of the puzzle all jumbled up, out of order, with no idea how they're supposed to fit together. He can make a guess with some of them, based on what he was able to read in his personnel file before the doctor interrupted him, but the rest are just fragments floating in a void.

 

And it doesn't help that every time he gains a significant amount of memory back at once, his head hurts worse than it did before. If he was the paranoid type, he might be starting to wonder if something was trying to prevent him from remembering his old self, his old life. But he knows the culprit responsible, and it's called 'someone hit him really hard on the head over five months ago.'

 

There's one piece of memory that's really bothering him though, something lurking in the back of his mind since he came aboard and started getting more frequent flashbacks. He remembers a lot of time spent here, or in a medical bay that looked similar, for various injuries and illnesses over the years. But there's one stretch of hospitalization that doesn't fit. There was no engine noise, and a bright blue sky visible out the window, and he remembers being weak and achey all over for a long time. He would think it was from a time before Starfleet, but Bones was there, too. And the young Spock, and Uhura, and other faces he's seen in his dreams, faces whose names are just out of reach.

 

Jim frowns, and taps Uhura's arm to get her attention, trying to figure out how to sign what he wants to ask. He decides on _memory hospital not here_ , and she frowns at him, trying to decipher what he's trying to say. _Me sick,_ he adds, struggling with his own lack of defining details, and with the lack of words to describe what he does remember. _Bones there. You there._

 

He can see the moment she figures out what he's asking about, her eyes going wide, but rather than respond to his question, she pats him on the knee and stands. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

 

Confused, he watches her pull Bones aside and they talk in hushed whispers, not loud enough for him to hear. Both of them keep glancing over at him with concern on their faces, baffling him further. What kind of memory would make them react this way? _It must be something bad. Something they don't want me to remember? But why? I thought getting my memories back was supposed to be a good thing for everyone._

 

When Uhura returns to his bedside, Bones comes too, looking nervous and reluctant, like this is something he doesn't want to talk about. "Hey Jim. Uhura says you're asking about a time when you were hospitalized Earthside, is that right?" Jim nods slowly, uncertain. "It's kind of a long story, but about six years ago, you were at Starfleet Medical for eight weeks recovering from severe radiation poisoning. It wasn't really a great experience for most of us, except for the part where you got better."

 

Jim frowns deeply. Something in there doesn't seem right, the story missing a _lot_ of details, and before he knows why he's signing it, his hands give the gesture for _dead_.

 

Uhura gasps audibly, quickly covering her mouth. "Yes," she says, once she regains her composure, "you were clinically dead before you were revived. You were comatose for two weeks. It was pretty awful, captain."

 

Dead. Actually dead. It's bizarre, but it feels like it fits. And weirdly, he finds the news uplifting. _I've recovered from being dead before, and went on to captain a starship for years after. Compared to that, this is nothing, right?_

 

They both look like they're expecting him to freak out, but he just smiles at them, confusing them further. He doesn't remember the part where he apparently died, just the part where he convalesced with friends at his side. _I heal again,_ he signs to Uhura, and though she clearly doesn't understand why he's taking this so well, she nods in agreement.

 

"That's the plan, sir."


	26. Chapter 26

It is gratifying to step into Sickbay and see Captain Kirk sitting on one of its many biobeds once more, regardless of the captain's physical condition. Spock has not seen him in person since the day he was abducted on Ek Chuaj. It was logical to believe that there was a possibility he would never return to the _Enterprise_ , and Spock has never been so satisfied to prove that option invalid.

 

Kirk looks up at the sound of the door hissing open, and though those improbably blue eyes show signs of pain and mild confusion, the captain smiles a little as he meets Spock's gaze. At his side, Uhura smiles also, and Spock can see the stress of this situation upon her, though she hides it with skill comparable to that of a Vulcan. "Greetings, captain," Spock says, inclining his head slightly. "It is pleasing to see you again."

 

Doctor McCoy has already relayed to him that Kirk is currently aphonic, so it is of no surprise that the captain does not voice his answer. Instead, his hands move in a series of deliberate gestures, angled so that Uhura may see them. "He says thank you," she relays, "and he wants to know if his friends will be visiting soon."

 

Spock raises an eyebrow. It is logical to assume that the friends to whom the captain refers are his shipmates from the smugglers' vessel, but his concern for them could originate from genuine friendship, confirming their statements regarding their actions over these past one hundred sixty-four days, or it could be a result of mental conditioning given to Kirk to keep him obedient. "Perhaps," he answers, and Kirk frowns, presumably troubled by his non-specificity. "Once their testimony has been verified."

 

Kirk's frown deepens, but before he can respond, McCoy waves Spock into his office. "Be right back, Jim," he calls out to Kirk, who reluctantly nods in assent, looking back to Uhura as she speaks to him quietly.

 

Spock does not eavesdrop, assuming their discussion to be a private one, and he follows the doctor into the small office. "Report," Spock says, clasping his hands behind his back.

 

"Well, I don't think they abused him in any way," McCoy begins, and while Spock would ordinarily deny the existence of any emotional response to such news, a tension in the core of his chest seems to loosen. One might refer to it as relief. "The worst of his injuries apparently happened before he was... _sold_." The doctor spits the last word as if it is an unpleasant flavor on his tongue, and Spock cannot fault him for it. The thought of his friend and captain being bound and sold like a common beast is a distasteful one.

 

"Quite frankly, it's amazing he's gotten along as well as he has. He's dealing with significant memory loss, some kind of seizures, an inability to write or type coherently, and of course those bastards that took him paralyzed his larynx. But aside from that shiner he's got, I can't find a single sign that he's been hurt recently, and I'm pretty sure he's been eating and sleeping better than he was before he was taken. And there's no way he could've learned Terran Sign without the help of that ship's crew, or at least their active cooperation."

 

Spock considers this new input. "His shipmates were quite insistent that Captain Kirk is a member of their crew, their slave by technicality only. It appears that this claim is not unsubstantiated."

 

Hope is a human concept, yet Spock finds that while he had not dared consciously acknowledge such feelings, he had hoped that the captain had found himself in tolerable enough circumstances to endure until rescue. It is unexpected and surprising to learn that not only has Kirk been properly cared for by his captors, he has been all but _adopted_ by them. It is highly improbable, yet this has occurred. And he cannot justifiably hold them accountable for preventing Kirk from returning to his rightful place on the _Enterprise_ , if their testimony is indeed accurate.

 

"Is the captain fit for questioning?" Spock asks.

 

"Not a full debriefing, but if it's just a few questions, I don't see why not," McCoy answers, brow furrowed as it often is, particularly when it comes to the health of the captain. "He knows about enough Terran Sign to get by, but anything requiring complex answers is probably gonna have to wait until he's learned more Sign or until we've got him writing again."

 

That is reasonable, so Spock inclines his head in agreement. "Understood."

 

Back out in the main area of Sickbay, Kirk and Uhura are conversing still, the captain's hands copying her movements as she teaches him new gestures, apparently not signs that are already part of his vocabulary. "This one is 'crew,'" she says, and performs a somewhat lengthy and complex series of motions, consisting of at least three distinct gestures.

 

Kirk shakes his head, and makes a different gesture, pinching his index fingers and thumbs of both hands, touching them together before rotating them outward until the opposite sides of his hands make contact with each other. Uhura frowns, her expression uncertain. "No, captain, that one means 'family,'" she says, but her expression clears as Kirk holds out both hands, palms upward, and uses his right hand to brush up against the left, twice in rapid succession. "Easy? Oh, I see what you mean," she says, smiling at him. "And I guess it does sort of mean the same thing."

 

They both look up as Spock approaches, and despite McCoy's report that Kirk's cranial trauma has caused memory loss, there is at least some manner of recognition in the captain's gaze. It is odd to see his often-boisterous captain so silent, and a very human part of Spock finds that he misses the sound of Kirk's voice. "Captain," Spock greets him again, "I must express my sympathies at the ordeal you have endured these past five point four six months. Before your... friends... may visit you here in Medical, I must know if their treatment of you has been satisfactory."

 

Kirk's expressive eyebrows rise, and he makes several gestures for Uhura to translate for him. "Yes, fun and... exciting?" she says, sounding uncertain of her interpretation until the captain nods in confirmation.

 

It seems a very human response, to see such experience as one of excitement rather than suffering. But Spock is hardly one to dictate how one should react to such an ordeal. If Kirk is able to find a positive aspect to his enslavement, it surely can only be beneficial for his recovery. "At any point during your time under their care, were you treated in a degrading manner?" Spock asks.

 

Kirk hesitates, his hands poised to answer, but uncertain of his reply. He finally signs a response, and Uhura frowns, taking a moment to fully compile his answer. "After they bought you, you slept on the floor because there weren't enough beds." Kirk nods, his hands moving again, adding to his reply. "And you pretended to be a slave on your last job." The captain nods again and reaches up to touch the yellowing bruise around his eye with a somewhat sheepish grin, a familiar expression on this particular human.

 

Spock regrets that Kirk is so limited in his ability to communicate at this time, both for his own sake as well as a curiosity regarding the details of his captain's apparently eventful travels on the Romulan side of the Neutral Zone. Regardless, it appears as though the crew of the _Laehval'dhael_ are no danger to Kirk, and it seems improper at best to continue holding them in the brig after they have risked so much for his sake. It does not excuse their crimes, of which there are doubtlessly many, but they have conducted themselves with honor and at least some measure of honesty. And they have delivered not only classified Romulan military technology of which Starfleet was previously unaware, but they have also returned something far more valuable: James Tiberius Kirk.

 

Perhaps it is illogical to be lenient. An act of compassion or rectification of a misdeed does not undo an act of greed or malice. But Spock is not certain that logic alone can truly guide him in this instance.

 

He moves over to activate the intraship intercom. "Spock to Security. Release the four prisoners from the brig and escort them to Sickbay. They are not to be unaccompanied at any time, but they are to be treated as guests."

 

If the officer at the other end of the transmission is confused or surprised by these instructions, she gives no audible indication. " _Understood, commander._ "

 

It is possible that such an order will prove to be a mistake. But when Spock turns and sees Kirk's brilliant smile, he cannot find it in himself to regret this decision.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written far enough ahead that I've decided to upload an extra chapter today. :D Enjoy!

_Well, now I've seen everything._

 

First the inside of a starship's brig, and now they're practically getting the grand tour. Tafv is under no delusions that he and his crew are free to go, or even that they're being trusted, thanks to the pair of security officers escorting them through the ship. But there are no weapons drawn, and while the officers walk with an air of caution, they're certainly friendly enough.

 

"Per Commander Spock's orders, you are not to go anywhere on the ship unaccompanied," the higher ranked officer says, a man named Giotto. "Certain areas of the ship are off-limits to everyone but authorized personnel, and I imagine you aren't familiar with the layout of the _Constellation_ -class."

 

The real reasons are fairly transparent, but Tafv allows them to have their fiction without a fuss. As it stands, they are being given some semblance of freedom, and they are being allowed to visit their youngest crew member. _Captain Kirk, hero of Starfleet._ It's still difficult to accept that his silenced _paectum_ is one of the most famous Terrans of contemporary times, but there is no denying the wealth of evidence in front of him.

 

Arizhel grumbles to herself as the crew of the _Shadowbird_ are led to the medical bay, and she breaks off from the group the moment their young friend is in sight. Kirk looks better than the last time Tafv saw him, sitting upright on one of their incessantly beeping biobeds, his eyes relatively clear of pain for the moment, though there are still signs that it hasn't left him yet. A woman in a red Starfleet uniform sits at his bedside, and while some Terrans might balk at the approach of a snarling Klingon, she holds her ground, refusing to move from Kirk's side.

 

Commander Spock is against one wall of the medical bay, standing with hands clasped behind his back, watching them all with that maddening Vulcan calm. The doctor who identified Jarok as Starfleet's missing captain is present as well, looking as though he'd rather be standing between Arizhel and their mutual patient, forced to content himself with standing as close as possible, his body language protective and wary.

 

After Arizhel is sufficiently satisfied by Kirk's current condition, the two medics take a few steps aside to discuss his health, and Tafv immediately tunes them out, knowing he will get the layman's version later. Instead, he focuses his attention on Kirk, who gives him a slightly sheepish smile. The Terran points to himself, then taps the fingers of his right hand against the shoulder on the same side of his body, the gesture for _captain_ , and his expression of disbelief matches the one Tafv has been carrying in his heart since Spock told them his true name.

 

"Yeah, that's what they tell me too," Tafv replies, smiling slightly. "How are you feeling, _aehval_?"

 

Kirk makes the sign for _better_ , but even as he does, the woman at his bedside is visibly startled by the endearment. "You call him 'little voice'?" she asks, her voice holding hints of outrage.

 

_She thinks we're mocking him._ But before Tafv can explain, Kirk touches her arm and gives the sign for _friendly_ , splaying the fingers of both hands near his face and waving them slightly as he pulls his arms apart. She frowns at him, and shoots a suspicious look at Tafv and his crew. "You're sure, captain?"

 

The look that Kirk gives her can only be described as amused, and apparently requires no actual Sign for her to understand him. "All right, I hear you," she says, smiling slightly despite her obvious misgivings.

 

Desarr-Ka gives a meaningful glance of his own towards Tafv, and the Romulan nods in agreement. _There's no doubt about it. They really do know him._ He'd hoped that maybe it was a mistake, that their Jarok merely looks very similar to the captain of the _Enterprise_ , but it's clear now that such hopes are only fantasy.

 

_So what happens now?_

 

* * *

 

Knowing that Kirk's spent the last five and a half months as part of another crew and actually seeing him with them are two different things entirely. Even as McCoy and the Klingon medic compare notes and discuss potential diagnoses, he still keeps a watchful eye on Kirk as his friend interacts with the other three aliens. Uhura's with him too, so McCoy's not worried they're going to _do_ anything, but the novelty of Kirk _actually being here_ still hasn't quite worn off yet, like he's afraid the captain will vanish if he turns his back again. It's happened before.

 

In all the years McCoy has known him, Kirk has always been slow to truly trust anyone, always holding something of himself back. And knowing what he does now about everything his friend has been through over the years, he's never blamed the captain for his wariness. But without his memories to burden him, maybe that's helped somehow, because he can't see any hesitation or distrust anywhere in Kirk's body language as he signs to them.

 

There's an affectionate look in the giant Orion's eye as he gently ruffles Kirk's hair, saying something quietly enough that McCoy can't hear it, but the captain grins and gestures something in return that makes the Orion chuckle. The Bolian woman sits next to Jim and puts an arm around his shoulders, confusing the readouts on the biobed, and he leans into her the same way he used to sit shoulder to shoulder with McCoy at the Academy after a night out on the town, or stargazing late at night in Golden Gate Park. And the amusement hidden under the stern expression on the Romulan captain's face would not have been out of place on the late Admiral Pike as he watches his crew together, arms crossed over his chest.

 

A crew that now includes Jim.

 

Despite the faint but constant lines of pain still on Kirk's face, he looks _happy_ , like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, and McCoy's heart squeezes in his chest, feeling wrung out and uncertain. _What if Jim doesn't want to come home? Do I have a right to take that happiness away from him?_

 

" _Tera'ngan_ ," the Klingon medic snaps, drawing his attention back to her. It might be his imagination, but her expression seems to soften slightly as she notices where he was looking, though her sharp teeth are bared in annoyance. "Are you listening?"

 

"Yes, of course," McCoy says, and turns slightly so that he can't see Kirk except out of the corner of his eye, his own thoughts in turmoil. There's still time before anyone has to make any decisions, but in the end, it'll be up to Kirk. And McCoy can't even take a guess as to what his friend might choose, not in this state. "I'll have a better shot at diagnosis with your tricorder data, if you've still got it. The sooner I can analyze your records, the sooner I can decide on a course of treatment."

 

The medic nods, and turns to one of the security guards. "Take me to our ship," she demands. "I must retrieve my medical equipment."

 

Giotto looks to Spock for guidance, who nods in approval. "Right this way, ma'am," the security officer says, ignoring her snarl at the very human honorific.

 

McCoy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, as Spock steps up to stand beside him. "What a clusterfuck."

 

And where Spock once would have picked apart the slang term with his usual annoying Vulcan need to be idiom-free and pedantic, today all he says is, "Indeed."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated disclaimer: I'm not a medical professional of any kind, so any mistakes in that area are completely on me! I've done as much research as Google will allow, so if anything is portrayed incorrectly, I apologize.

Kirk only lasts about another hour before it's clear that his headache is working its way toward another migraine. Or maybe it's the same one, coming back for round two. Either way, McCoy doesn't hesitate to dose him with a stronger painkiller, and half-closes the privacy curtain around his biobed to give him a slightly darker place to sleep it off.

 

"May I sit with him?" the Bolian woman asks the doctor, a pleasant smile on her face.

 

McCoy wants to say no, to shelter Kirk in the sanctuary of Sickbay, keeping his friend all for himself, out of the clutches of the strangers who have dared claim him as their own. But it's a selfish impulse, and after seeing how much these aliens genuinely seem to care for him, McCoy can't really justify denying her. And besides, if he didn't have work to do, figuring out the extent of Kirk's injuries, he'd want to be at the captain's bedside too. "Just for a little while," he decides. "And just you. He needs to rest."

 

Her smile doesn't waver one bit. "I know. We have done this before, doctor."

 

 _Of course they have._ It eats him up inside to realize that Kirk has been suffering like this for such a long time, without McCoy there to help him. And as much as he resents being replaced this way, he's grudgingly grateful that the captain has had _someone_ looking after him.

 

Lieutenant Galloway escorts the Romulan captain and his big Orion friend out of Medical to destinations unknown, probably heading off to make sure no one's messed with that heap of junk they call a ship. Spock heads up to the bridge, but before Uhura follows suit, she pulls the doctor aside. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly.

 

"No," McCoy admits, exhaling shakily. "You?"

 

"Me either," she agrees, and though she smiles faintly, it doesn't reach her eyes. "He's so different..."

 

"Yeah. But he's still the same Jim." It's a contradiction, one that by all rights shouldn't make sense. But it's Kirk, so it does. "He's gonna need you to translate for him for a while. Are you going to be all right with that?"

 

Uhura nods immediately. "It won't be a problem. Just let me know when you need me." She steps forward to give him a brief hug, before heading out to take care of whatever duties she left undone at her post.

 

It's several minutes later before Giotto returns with the Klingon medic, Arizhel, who is carrying the oldest and most rickety-looking tricorder McCoy has ever seen. _Good God, it's one step up from leeches and bloodletting,_ he grumbles internally, poking at the outdated device. _I suppose I should be grateful they have a medic at all._

 

Arizhel grunts and takes it from him, going through the recorded readings and isolating all her scans of Terran physiology, before handing it back. It's just raw data, but McCoy is used to interpreting that, and the records paint a troubled picture. The earliest scans show the skull fracture, mild intracranial hemorrhaging, hairline fractures in the left radial bone, and of course burns on the nape of the neck and inside the soft tissues of the throat. More proof that the worst of the damage was likely not inflicted by anyone other than the slavers themselves, for all the comfort _that_ gives.

 

Subsequent scans are much less concerning in scope, but the frequency of examinations is a worry. Most show signs of increased inflammation near the damaged portions of Kirk's gray matter and irritation to the cranial nerves. "You took these every time he had a migraine?" McCoy asks, frowning at the data.

 

"Yes," the Klingon answers, her lips pulled back from sharp teeth in what might be a grin, or perhaps a snarl. It's hard to tell, with her species. "If it was bad enough that he could not work."

 

"And there were no indications of seizures before today?" He certainly doesn't see any obvious signs in the scans he's inspected so far.

 

"No," she answers bluntly.

 

McCoy resists the urge to sigh as he considers that, comparing Kirk's symptoms against his mental encyclopedia or medical knowledge. "I don't know how head trauma works for your people, but in humans, delayed complications aren't unheard of. What symptoms did he present with?"

 

The universal translator has always had a hell of a time tackling medical terminology, and apparently Klingon is no exception to this rule. As she speaks, much of what Arizhel says is left untranslated, and she snarls when she realizes he isn't understanding. Grudgingly, she simplifies her descriptions until McCoy can tell what the hell she's getting at. "It began with the severe head pain, but there were other strange reactions. His hands moved as if he was trying to speak, but made no gestures we know. He was unaware of my presence, staring at nothing, and did not react except to light. He remained this way for only two and a half _tup_ , but the head pain continued after."

 

McCoy doesn't know how long a _tup_ is, but it doesn't sound very long. "No full-body convulsions?" he asks.

 

Arizhel shakes her head. "No."

 

Well, that's one small mercy. "Judging by the location of the damage, and what you've told me, this sounds like a complex partial seizure. Could be a sign of temporal lobe epilepsy. I'll have to run more tests to be sure, but if it is, it's treatable with medication these days." It's better news than it could have been, but McCoy still doesn't like it. Health standards for starship captains are much more strict than that of your average crewman, and while Kirk's condition is likely manageable, it's possible he may need to be on medication for the rest of his life. Starfleet Command isn't going to like that.

 

With the end of their five-year mission coming up, it's possible that Command might simply promote Kirk to admiral and assign him to a desk job, maybe teaching at the Academy. It wouldn't be the first time he's been up for promotion, but after the loss of the first _Enterprise_ and Krall's attack on _Yorktown_ , Kirk had seemed to lose all interest in a calm boring post planetside, his enthusiasm and _excitement_ for exploring the unknown renewed. Being _forced_ into a desk job just might destroy him.

 

And that's assuming he even regains all his memories. If not, there's a good chance Kirk will be given an honorable medical discharge from Starfleet anyway. Forced early retirement. It's much, much less than he deserves.

 

But McCoy doesn't want to think about the other option on the table here, one that would let Kirk continue to sail the stars - flying away on the smuggler's ship, far away from Federation territory and the _Enterprise_. There would be a very good chance that McCoy would never see him again, and given their current career path, he can't imagine it's a life that's any safer than service aboard a Starfleet vessel in deep space, subject to countless deadly dangers.

 

No, he won't let that happen. These last few months have been the worst torture imaginable, not knowing if Kirk was alive or dead, if he was imprisoned and struggling to escape, or waiting for a rescue that might never have come. _I won't go through that again._

 

The best option is to do what he has always done: to treat Kirk to the best of his ability, and then fight for him, tooth and nail. And if Starfleet Command doesn't like it, they can go shove it up their collective asses. _Jim has sacrificed too much to be shoved aside and forgotten. Starfleet owes him more than just a pension and a "thanks for your service."_

 

Through the small gap in the privacy curtain around Kirk's biobed, he can see the captain's chest rising and falling with each breath he takes, slow and regular in sleep, one hand held in the gentle grasp of the Bolian woman. _I'll see you back in the captain's chair, Jim,_ McCoy silently vows to his friend. _I'm not shipping out again without you._


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any delays! The power is out in my town right now so I'm currently taking refuge inside a fast food place and leeching off their internet. If they don't get us up and running by tomorrow, the next few chapters may be delayed. I didn't want to leave you guys hanging with no word, so consider this your heads up! And fingers crossed that my power will be back on later tonight.

When Spock returns to the bridge, he finds himself the subject of attention of nearly every officer on duty. Ignoring their stares, and the subtler side glances from those who are willing to make the attempt to behave in a professional manner, Spock takes the center seat and turns toward the current comms officer on duty, who is filling in for Uhura. "Lieutenant Palmer, send the following message to Starfleet Command: Captain Kirk has been successfully located and is currently onboard the _Enterprise_. Medical report to follow when available. Spock, commander, USS _Enterprise_."

 

"It's really him?" Chekov asks, fully turning around at his station, eyes wide with hope.

 

"It is," Spock affirms. It is somewhat irrational to ask for verification of established facts, but he understands the human need for reassurance, particularly when an individual has not witnessed the evidence for themselves, only heard it secondhand. "His condition is stable and is not life-threatening. However, the captain is not fit for duty at this time."

 

All eyes are on Spock, and Sulu also turns away from his duty station. "Is Doctor McCoy allowing visitors?"

 

"Not at present. Captain Kirk requires rest." He cannot fault the crew for wishing to see Kirk alive and well after so long without news, particularly when Spock has already done so himself. But the captain's health must take priority over their desires. There will be an appropriate moment for their curiosity to be sated, in time.

 

"And our... guests?" Sulu asks, choosing his words with care. "Do we need to drop them off at the nearest starbase?"

 

"Negative. For the moment, they will remain onboard until such time as they are no longer required for the captain's recuperation." It is possible that Kirk may wish to accompany his new shipmates when they depart, but Spock does not find the thought to be a tolerable one. Logic dictates that the captain should seek treatment in Federation space, where medical knowledge includes experts in his species' physiology, and that he should strive to return to active service if possible. But Kirk has never been one to follow the logical path over his very human emotional impulses, and his attachment to the crew of the _Laehval'dhael_ is obvious. Taking his impaired memory into account, Kirk may currently experience more camaraderie in their company than that of his own crew.

 

Spock steeples his fingers and contemplates the problem as the bridge crew return to their assigned tasks. While he is not a trained professional in the disciplines of human psychology or neurology, he is aware that amnesia and other memory disruptions are considered difficult to treat. There will be no guarantee that Kirk will return to his former self on his own.

 

On Vulcan, such illnesses were not unknown. Specially trained mind healers were often employed to correct these conditions through use of mind-melds and guided meditation. Such healers are now rare, few spared from the destruction of his homeworld, and those that still live are often in high demand among the remaining Vulcan population.

 

Were the situation more desperate, he might make the attempt himself. He has touched Kirk's mind before when needed, after all. But he is not a trained healer, and with the captain's mind in such a tenuous state, he does not want to risk making things worse through ignorance. Not if there is another, safer option. Obtaining assistance of this manner will be difficult, particularly at such short notice, and for treatment of a human. But it is a possibility worth pursuing regardless.

 

Uhura has returned to the bridge during his contemplations, reclaiming her station from Palmer, so it is to her that Spock turns now. "Lieutenant, please send an inquiry to New Vulcan regarding the availability of a mind healer. If one is available, the _Enterprise_ will be able to make orbit in two point six days."

 

"Aye, sir," she answers, any discomfort or distress at Kirk's condition hidden well beneath her professional demeanor. But as she turns to her station, she pauses, alert. "Commander, there's an incoming transmission from Starfleet Command."

 

"Onscreen," Spock orders.

 

The viewscreen changes to display the familiar sight of Admiral Nogura's office at Starfleet Headquarters, and the admiral himself glares at Spock from behind the desk. " _Commander Spock._ "

 

"Admiral Nogura," Spock greets him, and waits.

 

He does not have to wait long. " _Commander, the last intelligence that I received regarding Captain Kirk's location suggested that he was still being held prisoner on the Romulan side of the Neutral Zone. Would you care to explain just how he came to be onboard the_ Enterprise _?_ " the admiral demands. " _You were under strict orders not to violate the treaty._ "

 

"The treaty remains intact," Spock replies. He had expected that Command might not be satisfied with such a brief report, and he is aware that he will need to select his answers with care. While he will not lie about the circumstances in which Kirk has returned to them, years of observing his human shipmates - and, on occasion, his late counterpart - has given him some measure of ability to omit incriminating facts in a misleading manner. And until he makes his decision regarding the fate of the alien crew, he does not wish for Starfleet Command to know of their true nature. "The ship upon which he was held is not affiliated with the Romulan government and was intercepted in Federation territory."

 

Admiral Nogura looks surprised, but also disgusted. " _Smugglers? Or mercenaries, perhaps?_ "

 

Spock inclines his head, as if he has no idea. "Their current shipment of cargo is not illegal, and I am not currently aware of any active warrants for their arrest." Not a lie; the crew of the _Laehval'dhael_ are almost certainly wanted criminals, but he has not seen their files himself. A technicality only, but Spock thrives on such things.

 

" _Hmm._ " Admiral Nogura looks displeased, but not suspicious. Spock _is_ a Vulcan, after all. " _And Kirk's status?_ "

 

"As stated in my previous transmission, Doctor McCoy has yet to submit his official report," Spock answers. "Once I have received it, I will forward it for your review."

 

Admiral Nogura nods, his expression an unhappy one, but accepting Spock's explanations. For the moment. " _Very well. And I expect a formal debriefing from Captain Kirk once he is fit for questioning._ "

 

_That may prove difficult._ But Spock does not give voice to this thought, his expression a fine example of Vulcan self-control. "Understood, admiral."


	30. Chapter 30

Kirk sleeps for the next six hours, not stirring even when McCoy sets up the whirring nerve regenerator to work on his throat, encouraging what little healing it can prompt at a time. It's still far too early to see any concrete improvement, but the doctor still finds himself somewhat disappointed to see no notable changes to Kirk's nerve scans when the cycle completes twenty minutes later.

 

It's nearly 1830 ship's time when the captain finally blinks awake, his eyes hazy only from sleep, quickly clearing as he looks around. His gaze falls on McCoy and immediately brightens with recognition, though not quite familiarity. Not yet. Not the same as before.

 

"Hey, Jim," McCoy says. "How're you feeling now?" The biobed's readouts have already told him that Kirk's pain levels are much lower now, but he always wants to hear it from the patient.

 

Kirk makes that open-palm, chin-swiping gesture that ends in a thumbs up, the sign that Uhura translated as _better_. He follows it up with the other chin-tapping gesture, moving his hand away from his face, the one that she'd said means _thank you_.

 

 _I'm gonna have to learn some of these things sometime soon._ A few words will only get him so far, and at least he only has to recognize the gestures, not make them himself. "Glad to hear it," he says, watching Kirk for any lingering symptoms and seeing nothing of concern.

 

However, Kirk's stomach chooses this particular moment to grumble hungrily, and the captain looks embarrassed, flashing a grin at McCoy. His hands make a gesture that the doctor doesn't recognize, curving his fingers and swiping them downward, over his chest. McCoy can take a pretty good guess, though. "Yeah, that figures. Hang tight; I'll get someone to bring up some clothes for you, and we'll hit the mess."

 

McCoy had wondered if Kirk might balk at the idea of going into a large public area, full of people he won't necessarily recognize, but who'll know him on sight. But the captain just gives him an actual thumbs up and a faint smile, unafraid. _Same old Jim._ It's great to see.

 

McCoy can't help smiling back at him, and sends an extra message to Uhura, asking her to join them for dinner. Her response is immediate.

 

_Absolutely. See you there._

 

* * *

 

Now that he's not sneaking through the corridors like a fugitive, Jim has the chance to actually slow down and take in the scenery as he follows Bones through the halls of the _Enterprise_. As before, crewmen stare when he passes by, and whispers again break out behind him, murmurs of confusion, excitement, concern.

 

He self-consciously tugs on the collar of his jacket, trying to pull it a little higher, the back of his neck feeling far too exposed for his liking. He can't see it himself, but he imagines the slave brand stands out like a beacon. The crewman who brought his clothes must have gotten them from the captain's quarters, because while they're familiar and fit him well, they didn't bring anything to cover his neck.

 

 _I should ask Desarr-Ka about getting something permanent._ More than once, he's looked at the black lines of ink on the Orion's nape, covering his own brand so well that it's not noticeable unless you're really looking, and wondered if he should do the same. For now, he'll have to make do with what he has.

 

Uhura greets them at the door to the mess hall, stepping forward to give him a hug the moment he's close enough. "Hey captain, you're looking better."

 

Jim's pretty sure that she's never been in the habit of hugging him this much, but he certainly doesn't mind, wrapping his arms around her for a moment. And when he steps back, he signs _feel better_ to her, smiling a little.

 

"Glad to hear it."

 

He's not sure what he was expecting, used to the small galley of the _Shadowbird_ , big enough for only half a dozen people. The mess hall of the _Enterprise_ is huge in comparison, full of people, many of whom do double-takes when they see him, though he can't tell if it's because of who he is or because he's the only one not in uniform.

 

Jim takes a step back, uncertain, but Bones puts a hand on his arm. Not restraining him, just gently holding on. "You okay?" the doctor asks.

 

 _Not really._ He hadn't realized just how much attention he was going to draw, and though some of the faces looking at him twinge familiarity in the back of his mind, many others are blank slates to him. And he doesn't know what they expect from him. What he should do, what he should _say_ , and he doesn't want to see their pity when they realize he isn't how they remember him.

 

But he does know that he's not the type to back down from a challenge, so he draws on his courage and takes a deep breath, and nods to Bones. _I can do this. It's just dinner._

 

The synthesizers in the wall are similar to the one he found in the captain's cabin, and he scrolls through the popular options, unsure what he's looking for. It's strange, ordering food just for himself instead of sharing a communal meal, cooked right on the ship by skilled hands, using fresh ingredients. And none of the items on the digital menu are what he wants, but he doesn't want to hold up the line, so he punches in the code for stir-fry and a cup of coffee, the closest thing he can find to the kind of food Tytha usually makes.

 

Bones looks a little surprised as Jim picks up his tray. "And here I thought you'd go straight for a cheeseburger."

 

With his hands occupied, he can't sign a response, but he honestly doesn't know what he'd say. He hadn't even considered a cheeseburger, but it doesn't sound appealing in the slightest. _Was that my favorite before?_ He can't do anything but shrug, and wait for Bones and Uhura to get their own food, unsure of where to sit, unwilling to venture out into the crowd without them.

 

As it is, they've barely sat down at one of the corner tables when there's an enthusiastic cry of, "Captain!"

 

Jim looks up, and his mood brightens immediately as he recognizes the man in red, remembered from countless dreams and fragments of memory, and apparently a _lot_ more comprehensible in person, despite the accent. The officer grabs his hand and pumps it in an enthusiastic handshake. "It's great ta see ye, sir!"

 

He can't help but smile, and reclaims his right hand so he can sign _you too_.

 

"You remember Scotty?" Uhura asks, looking surprised but pleased.

 

 _Scotty._ The name fits, finally attaching itself to the face he's seen a dozen times over, watching him repair and modify engine components, giving Jim the tools he's needed to keep the _Shadowbird_ up and running efficiently these past few months. So Jim nods, and signs _little_. Like so many other things, he can't articulate just how much the memories of this man have helped him out, a simple _thank you_ nowhere close to adequate.

 

If Scotty is thrown off by Jim's lack of speech at all, or the blatant implication that his memory is impaired, he doesn't show it a wee bit. "That's one hell of a ship you arrived on. God only knows how she's still flying."

 

Jim huffs out a silent laugh, and points at himself, raising his eyebrows.

 

" _You_ , captain?" Scotty sounds surprised, but also delighted, and he delivers a hearty slap to Jim's back. "I dinnae suppose I could take a gander at yer handiwork, eh?"

 

 _Ask captain,_ Jim's hands say, but he grins up at Scotty, already certain that the answer will be yes. And he's eager to show off his work to someone who can truly appreciate it, something that he knows he's done with his own two hands.

 

"You'll have to ask the ship's captain," Uhura translates for him, and adds, "He seems pretty reasonable."

 

"Aye, I'll do just that," Scotty agrees, completely unfazed. He pats Jim on the shoulder. "I've gotta go, but it's _great_ to have you back, sir."

 

Bones is staring at Jim, his chicken sandwich untouched, and there's a strange look on his face, something between hope, disbelief, and jealousy. "Of the very few things you remember, _Scotty's_ one of them?"

 

Jim shrugs, and digs into his stir-fry, all nervousness about being among familiar strangers forgotten. _Maybe I really can do this... be their captain._


	31. Chapter 31

After dinner, Uhura and Bones take Jim on a tour of the _Enterprise_. It's beyond strange to walk down the halls of this massive leviathan, both familiar and unfamiliar. His feet know where they're going before he does, and every now and then he gets a weird feeling that something is _different_ than it should be, as if he remembers two different ships where there should be one. And the corridors are full of people, just shy of being remembered, faces blurring together as he passes, names just out of reach.

 

_Four hundred thirty-three of them,_ something whispers in the back of his mind, somehow knowing that it is the exact crew complement. Or was, last he'd known it. In either case, it's a bit of a shock, after months on the tiny five-man crew of the _Shadowbird_ , but the sounds of so many people living and working is soothing, comforting, _right_. Like he belongs here, with them.

 

The size of the ship herself doesn't truly sink in until they arrive in Main Engineering.

 

Jim has to crane his neck back to even have a chance at seeing the ceiling, partly blocked by crisscrossing catwalks and massive generator towers, stretching from floor to ceiling. Unlike other areas of the ship they've passed through, the relatively late hour doesn't seem to have any impact on the number of people still at their posts, keeping the ship running, and among a sea of red uniforms he catches a glimpse of Scotty disappearing into a mass of conduits with a spanner as big as his arm, focused intently on whatever issue has his attention.

 

_The_ Shadowbird _could fit in here with room to spare... glad I didn't have to maintain something this huge by myself!_

 

It's a well-organized chaos, and he has no problems making his way across the deck, Bones and Uhura trailing just behind him, letting him refamiliarize himself at his own pace. He passes the torpedo loading bay, and absently rubs the side of his head as he recalls shouting at Scotty over a shipment of the gleaming white missiles. _Why did we fight?_ Whatever the reason, he remembers Scotty walking away, shoulders slumped in defeat. But the engineer is still here despite that, and he was happy to see Jim, so whatever it was must be behind them both.

 

"You okay?" Uhura asks him, putting a gentle hand on his arm, and he abruptly realizes he's come to a dead stop in the middle of the main walkway.

 

He nods, and turns to face her, his first two fingers splayed, and he taps the middle finger against his cheek before moving his hand back over his shoulder. _Memory_. He doesn't have the words to describe it, but it doesn't seem to matter, because she gives him an understanding look and pats his arm.

 

"Head doing okay?" Bones asks, looking like he's just itching to drag Jim back to Sickbay at the very first sign of a headache.

 

_I'm fine, Bones, stop fussing._ The thought is reflex, the words coming to him almost as if by rote response, said over and over on dozens of occasions. But he can't say it, so he just nods, trying not to look irritated. As annoying as it is, it's also familiar, like remembering the steps to a dance you knew a long time ago. Not lost, just set aside for a while. If he'd had any lingering doubts that they'd simply mistaken him for their missing captain, those doubts have long since been put to rest. Nothing else makes sense.

 

_But you can't be captain of the_ Enterprise _unless you leave the_ Shadowbird _._

 

Which means he'd have to leave his shipmates behind, the people who gave him a home when he had none, cared for him when he had no one else. Desarr-Ka, who saved his life and gave him his friendship. Tafv, who gave him a job and a purpose. Tytha, who gave him unconditional affection, and the best cook that he can remember. Even grouchy Arizhel, who has cared for his injuries and kept him going all these months. They've been all he's had, and his heart twists painfully at the thought of never seeing them again.

 

He means what he told Uhura earlier. Why learn the much more complex sign for _crew_ when _family_ suits just fine?

 

But the more he remembers, the more he's come to realize that he had that kind of rapport here, too. And while he has no concept of when most of his fragmented memories took place, there are more of them than he'd dared imagine before. He can feel it in Uhura's hugs, sees it in Bones' concerned scowl, hears it in Scotty's friendly voice, and even Spock - a _Vulcan_ \- has a caring warmth of sorts in the way he looks at Jim.

 

_Shadowbird_ is home.

 

But _Enterprise_ was home too. And it could be again.

 

_How am I supposed to choose?_

 

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, determined to put off such gut-twisting contemplations until later, and comes back to himself. As he's reflected, he's apparently been wandering further into Engineering, deeper amongst the orderly swarm of red uniforms. And as he steps aside to let a small group of engineers pass, he comes face to face with a transparent door, the three-triangle symbol for radiation emblazoned into its surface.

 

_He can't breathe._

_His whole body is on fire, inside and out, reddening burns on every inch of exposed skin, vision blurring no matter how much he blinks to clear it. His back screams in agony, and he knows he shouldn't move, he could paralyze himself but there's no_ point _, he's dead anyway. All he can think about is making sure the ship is okay. So he coughs blood and bile, and drags himself across the hot metal an inch at a time, the harsh grating shredding the flesh on his palms with every agonizing pull._

_And with every breath that wheezes into tortured lungs, the blackness crushes in on him, caught in its current like a leaf in a whirlpool, circling the drain as it slowly, inexorably drags him to his fate._

_"I'm scared, Spock... help me not be."_

_The Vulcan's anguished voice murmurs in his ears, muffled and distant, fading in and out, his presence a smear of blue and black against the silver and white blur of the world outside._

_"...you are my friend."_

_A shadow against his fingertips, blocked by cruel glass, denying him the final futile comfort of human contact. And as knives shred his insides with each slowing breath, his cries of fear and loneliness choke into silence, never passing his lips._

_He falls into the deep darkness, sinking beneath the calm cold waves._

 

"Jim! _Jim_! Jesus Christ, Jim, look at me!"

 

His throat is raw from silent screams, a strangled wheeze tearing loose from his chest, and his gaze wildly darts around, unsure where he is. This isn't the warp core. And the blue smear in front of him, a horrified look on his face, is not Spock.

 

He's under a console, huddled in on himself, jammed as far into the shadows as he can reach. His back hurts, and for a moment he thinks it's phantom pain, but the ache of fresh bruises says otherwise, struck against something in a mad scramble for shelter that he _doesn't remember_. His chest heaves as he gulps for air, and he feels off-kilter in all sorts of ways as he lifts his hands, turning them over frantically. They're the same familiar hands, with tough calluses on the fingers and palms from months of working on engines. No blood. No bruises.

 

"Jim? Are you with us?"

 

The voice is scared, trying to cover it with calm professionalism, and Jim's head jerks up to look at him, eyes wide. _Bones? But wasn't I just... what the hell was that?_

 

Uhura is kneeling next to Bones, looking almost as appalled as the doctor does. "Captain, you're safe. It's okay."

 

He has to try three times before he's able to correctly make the sign for _memory_ , his hands trembling uncontrollably. Even if he had his voice, he's not sure he would be able to use it now, struck dumb by the intensity of what he's just experienced.

 

He can hear Uhura murmuring to Bones, and catches the word 'flashback,' but he feels sick and he closes his eyes, pressing his hands against his face, struggling to regain his composure. He hasn't had a memory like _that_ before, vivid and real, not just a vague impression like a scene from a dream. It was visceral and cold, so potent he can still taste metal on his tongue, and he shivers, unable to stop. _I really died._ It's one thing to hear about it. It's another thing entirely to remember his heart weakening in his chest, the unstoppable crushing weight of death bearing down on him. And then...

 

_And then..._

 

He doesn't remember what came after.

 

A hesitant hand touches his knee, and he flinches, startled at the contact. Everything is too sharp, too _real_ , his brain feeling like it's been rubbed raw. "Hey, hey Jim, it's okay." Bones' hand returns, warm and steadying, grounding him in the here and now. "You're all right."

 

He manages to nod, and drops a hand to his chest to sign _sorry_ , twisted up and confused inside.

 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Bones says firmly. "You hear me, Jim?" He waits for his nod, and reaches a hand out to him. "You ready to come out?"

 

He honestly doesn't know. But as freaked out as he still is, his heart thudding in his chest, it seems silly to stay hiding under this console like a child. And if he's going to trust these people, half-remembered but _family_ nonetheless, he has to start somewhere.

 

Jim reaches out and grabs his hand, letting Bones pull him back out into the light.


	32. Chapter 32

Something is different.

 

McCoy doesn't need to ask what Kirk remembered, down in Engineering. The layout of the _Enterprise-A_ is similar enough to her predecessor that even after a year and a half, sometimes even he forgets it's not the same ship, until he sees some small detail to remind him.

 

And Kirk had been standing right next to the warp core.

 

When the captain had frozen in place, unresponsive, gaze fixed on some point beyond sight, McCoy had thought he might be having another seizure. But then he'd started wheezing, long drawn-out breaths, and putting a hand on his arm had provoked a reaction that can only be described as _panic_. Kirk had thrown himself violently backward, recoiling from the touch, striking a support strut hard enough to knock himself off his feet.

 

It'd taken several minutes of calling his name before the captain showed any signs of even hearing it. And while he's not hiding under a console anymore, his upbeat attitude is all but gone, a shell-shocked look in his eye, and a minor tremor in his hands as he signs to Uhura.

 

_Oh, Jim... why'd you have to remember that first?_

 

It hadn't made much sense for him to be so blasé about his death, when they'd told him. But if all you remember is the recovery, how can you appreciate the severity of what made recuperation necessary in the first place? And while McCoy wants nothing more than to see Kirk's memories restored, he paradoxically wishes that some things would stay buried, sparing Kirk the pain of remembering them all over again. His death during the _Vengeance_ incident, the destruction of the first _Enterprise_ over Altamid, whatever horrors Jim faced on Tarsus IV... not to mention a childhood of abuse and neglect.

 

_But without those experiences, he wouldn't be the same Jim I know and love._

 

McCoy watches him carefully as Kirk puts on a brave face, but he's even quieter than before, if that's even possible. There's a little bit more of _Jim_ in him now, the way he holds himself, the way he's pretending that everything's fine when he's clearly _not_ , the determination to soldier on despite whatever pain he's going through. And the doctor feels horribly guilty for finding _hope_ in that, glimpses of his best friend and captain showing through more and more, but at the expense of the almost innocent happiness Kirk had found on the other side of the Neutral Zone.

 

If this had been any other time, any other problem, he would have taken Kirk and dragged him down to the officer's lounge for a drink and a quiet chat, taking up his role as the captain's sounding board and listening ear, serving up a bit of bartender psychotherapy. But he can't even do that, not without Uhura along to translate, a friendly intruder on what should be a private conversation between friends as close as brothers. It wouldn't be the same.

 

Maybe nothing will be again.

 

And there's really nothing he can do to fix that, not without lots of time to try. All he _can_ do is adapt to what is, and carry on as best he can.

 

So he puts on a brave face to match Kirk's, trying to pretend that this isn't the most fucking awful thing he's had to deal with in his whole career in Starfleet, and he takes gentle hold of the captain's elbow. "Come on, Jim. Let's go someplace less... volatile."

 

Kirk looks at him uncertainly, but he nods, his hands motionless for once, allowing himself to be led out of Engineering.

 

* * *

 

He'd almost prefer another migraine.

 

Jim has spent months wondering who he was before his memories were taken from him, eager to learn more about himself, even just little glimpses at a time. But now, for the first time, he's starting to regret that desire. He can't stop thinking about the searing agony, his body being ripped apart by indifferent radiation, and the terrifying fade into blackness.

 

_What else am I going to remember like that?_

 

He doesn't pay much attention to the path they take through the ship, placidly following Bones and Uhura as they walk down the corridors, lost in his thoughts. _Will it all be like that, if I get my memories back for real? My file said my life before Starfleet sucked, a_ lot _... will I have any good memories that vivid? If it was that bad, why did I stay?_

_Would it be better to stay on the_ Shadowbird _?_

 

He barely notices they've arrived at whatever destination Bones had in mind until he's being gently pushed to sit on a barstool, and he blinks hard, fighting the disorientation of finding himself somewhere else, somewhere new. A flat countertop sits in front of him, Uhura sitting on the stool beside his, Bones behind the bar getting three small glasses and a bottle of something neon green. There's a horrible sadness in Bones's hazel eyes as he pours the drinks, and maybe for the first time, Jim wonders what exactly this doctor is to him.

 

_He said I named him when we met... he doesn't treat me like a superior officer. Everyone else has called me captain, but he doesn't. And I really don't think a doctor is responsible for giving out ship tours. Uhura could've done this alone. I can't even talk to him without her._

_So why is he here?_

 

He's not aware that he's staring contemplatively at Bones until the doctor grunts and says, "You gonna gape at me all night or are you gonna drink?"

 

Jim looks down, and picks up the shotglass. It's a much smaller drink than the ales he's used to having these days, and not nearly as blue, but he knows it's not meant to be savored. He knocks it back in one smooth motion and swallows, feeling the pleasant gentle burn in his throat, not at all like the piercing fire that stole his voice. It's something he's done countless times, sitting in this very seat, and across from him... Bones.

 

Always Bones.

 

Jim frowns into his shotglass, swirling a few stray drops of green around the bottom as he thinks. He has a _lot_ of vague memories of the doctor, now that he's thinking about it. In Sickbay, in the hospital on Earth, in this officer's lounge, some even in the captain's quarters... and someplace he hasn't seen yet, a gleaming circular room where Jim sits in an important-looking chair, like holding court from a throne, Bones standing at his side, a constant voice of reason. Or pessimism. Either one.

 

Not a doctor.

 

He sets down the shotglass, and while his hands sign to Uhura, his gaze remains fixed on Bones. He points to the doctor, then points both index fingers skyward as he brings his hands together before pointing at himself. Then both index fingers pointed inward, rotating the right around the left.

 

At his side, Uhura draws in a sharp breath. "When did the two of you meet?"

 

And when Bones looks at him, it's with sorrow and heartbreak, and a glimmer of something that might be hope. "We were on the shuttle to Starfleet Academy," he says, and leans against the counter when Jim gestures for him to continue, leaning forward himself. "You'd just been in a fight, and I was pretty drunk..."


	33. Chapter 33

Bones' voice is hoarse from talking by the time his story comes to a close, sitting on the barstool next to Jim. The ship's lighting has dimmed steadily over the last few hours, transitioning into the night cycle, and on his other side Uhura sits with her eyes closed, head resting on folded arms, dozing lightly but still here to translate, if she's needed.

 

But Jim hasn't needed her for most of this, not unless he needs to ask something specific. He can't sign to Bones, but the truth of his tale is obvious in how easily he reads Jim's body language, the expressions on his face, questioning looks encouraging the doctor to elaborate on his last point or assertive nods whenever something he says sparks recognition from Jim's damaged memories.

 

So he sits and listens intently, silent, taking in every word, ignoring the dull ache in his head.

 

And all the while, he tries to fit shattered fragments of memories into place. Brief glimpses of sharing drinks with Bones in a cozy bar, studying together on a grassy hill in front of a lecture hall, a warm hand on his back to soothe him back to sleep after a nightmare in a dark dorm room. Standing in a simulator, dozens of eyes staring at him, the triumphant crisp taste of apple on his tongue. A steadying grip around his arm, keeping him from keeling over as he's dragged through the bowels of the _Enterprise_ , fighting against the urge to puke his guts out. Warm hazel eyes looking down at him in undisguised relief, as he lays weak and helpless in the hospital, a faint smile on his lips at the man who defied death itself to save him. Worry untwisting itself in his stomach as he watches Bones materialize on a transporter pad, fists raised as if ready to punch somebody, knowing for the first time that his best friend survived... something horrible.

 

_Best friend._

 

It's like looking up from underwater, the world above distorted and in constant motion, shadows and light mingling to muddy the image, only letting him see brief ripples with any kind of clarity. But behind it all, waiting for him to fight his way to the surface, the whole truth looms unfathomably far above.

 

Bones' voice finally quiets, looking at Jim with an exhausted hope in his eyes, leaning heavily against the bar, toying with an empty bottle between his hands. _Steadiest hands on the ship._ "I missed you, you know," he says abruptly, voice rough with uncertainty.

 

As if the last few hours hadn't made that abundantly clear.

 

Jim knows that Bones won't understand him, but he can't resist signing to the man - his _friend_. _Sorry I not remember you,_ his hands say.

 

But Bones at least knows _sorry_ , maybe guessing the rest. "Not your fault, Jim," he says sadly, looking down at his hands. "You took a bad hit to the head. You didn't ask for any of this to happen to you, and I should've been there with you. Maybe this never would've happened if I'd..."

 

This sounds like something he's said to himself more than once, berating himself over months and _months_ , and though Jim can't remember for himself even half of what Bones told him they've been through together, he remembers enough to know that he'd rather take the blame himself to spare his friend the pain of the what-ifs.

 

_Stop,_ Jim signs emphatically, slamming the side of his hand into the open palm of the other, the slapping sound of the impact jolting Bones out of what must be the hundredth time he's beaten himself up over this. _My fault not, your fault not._

 

Bones looks distressed, guilty, uncomprehending. He doesn't know enough Terran Sign to understand, but Jim is reluctant to wake Uhura, his thoughts and feelings meant for the doctor alone. So he trusts his instincts, and leans into the man who was his friend, grabbing him up in a hug, hoping it will say what he cannot.

 

Bones makes a startled noise, but clings to Jim like a drowning man. Or someone who hasn't seen his best friend in half a year.

 

It's familiar in a way that tugs deep in Jim's chest, and he closes his eyes, sorrow and guilt at war within him. _I'm sorry I'm not quite the same man you remember. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. But whatever happened when I was taken, it was_ not _your fault. Don't blame yourself, Bones._

 

When they finally let go of each other, Bones' eyes are suspiciously red, but Jim wouldn't say anything about it even if he could, sure that he looks much the same way. Seeing how much everyone here's missed him, his friends, his crew - his _family_ \- Jim is even more torn between his homes, adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

 

_I need to talk to the others._

 

Either way, it's late, and Bones looks like he's had enough for one day. Jim's not tired yet, after sleeping so much of the day away, but he gently shakes Uhura awake. _You sleep,_ he signs to her, once she's looking at him, her eyes bleary.

 

"Oh," she says, looking at the chronometer. "I didn't realize how late it was."

 

Bones looks reluctant to call it a night, but he nods in agreement, looking to Jim. "Do you need someone to walk you to your quarters?"

 

He's fairly certain he could find his way there, trusting his feet to lead him where he needs to go, but Jim frowns. He doesn't want to sleep in the dusty, disused cabin, surrounded by forgotten memories, alone. _Go ship,_ he signs instead.

 

"You want to go back to the _Laehval'dhael_?" Uhura asks, raising her eyebrows.

 

He doesn't know the words to tell her how much that ugly little ship means to him, the comfort of feeling the soothing rumble of the engines all but rocking him to sleep in his hammock, hearing the gentle snores of his shipmates down the corridor, able to rest soundly knowing that he's safe. The _Shadowbird_ is home, and he knows her from stem to stern, able to find his way with his eyes closed, or in pitch blackness.

 

_Enterprise_ is like something from a dream, disconcerting in her strange familiarity, and just the thought of trying to sleep so far away from the engines makes him nervous. And sleeping in a real bed... that sounds the strangest of all.

 

So Jim nods, and Uhura smiles sadly, her eyes shining in the dim light of the officer's lounge. "Okay, captain. If that's what you want."

 

It is. But Bones is looking at him like he's afraid Jim won't come back, so Jim smiles and signs _thank you_ , following it up with, _I see you tomorrow_.

 

And when Uhura relays the message, Bones smiles faintly, and claps a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Yeah, you will."

 

* * *

 

It's late when Tafv finally hears the familiar cadence of Kirk's footsteps coming up the _Shadowbird_ 's cargo ramp. The silent Terran smiles when he sees the Romulan waiting for him, but there's something different about him, something Tafv can't quite name.

 

But he looks healthy enough at the moment, showing no signs of head pain or the frightening neural disruption that Arizhel calls _seizure_. Kirk's blue eyes are clear, but burdened somehow, a strange sort of solemnity in the way he carries himself, and Tafv truly can believe that his youngest crewmate really is the captain of a ship himself.

 

"How are you doing?" Tafv asks, and he doesn't have to specify that he doesn't just mean physically.

 

_Strange,_ Kirk's hands reply, finding the words more easily than he did even only a week ago. _Family here, there. Memory lots. Confused._

 

He'd expected that, but it makes it no easier to hear. They have only known Kirk's true identity for a day, and already he's begun to change, though whether it's from the knowledge or because that doctor of theirs is helping him heal his damaged mind, Tafv can't guess. Either way, it's clear that sooner or later, the Terran is going to have to make a choice.

 

And even Tafv can't guess which ship he might choose.

 

"I'm a little surprised they let you come back down here," Tafv says instead, raising a sharp eyebrow at him.

 

Kirk shrugs, smiling slightly as he signs. _Sleep better here._

 

And that, at least, warms Tafv's heart in his side. Captain of the _Enterprise_ or not, Kirk is still their beloved Jarok, seeking the comfort and security of the _Shadowbird_ and her crew. And Tafv will gladly accept him onboard, for as long as he wishes to stay.

 

Tafv gives the Terran an affectionate nudge. "Go get some rest, _aehval_. That engineer of yours wants a tour in the morning."


	34. Chapter 34

To Jim's delight, Scotty is suitably impressed by the _Shadowbird_ , and even moreso when he sees some of the cobbled-together tech that they've been using to hold the ship together.

 

"Good God, cap'n, half these systems aren't even meant to be in spittin' distance of each other. How'd you ever get an Andorian shield generator to make nice with a Klingon stabilizer? Ach, and don't think I don't recognize that reverse compression modulation trick syncing up the nacelles from the last time ye had _me_ do it."

 

The two men spend much of the morning with their heads under a console or tearing off wall panels to get at the wiring, and while Jim still lacks most of the technical vocabulary he'd need to have an in-depth conversation about the ship's systems, he makes do with help from Desarr-Ka, lots of pointing, and some highly exaggerated facial expressions. More than once, Scotty becomes so excited by Jim's solution to a technical challenge that his accent really _does_ thicken to the point of incoherence, amusing Jim and baffling Desarr-Ka, who can't understand why his Terran friend is silently laughing.

 

And Jim cannot help but grin when Scotty finally notices the hammock strung up in one corner of the engine room. "I bet that's right convenient, innit? But I do hope ye dinnae expect _me_ to babysit the _Enterprise_ quite like this."

 

Jim shakes his head. _Probably against regulations or something anyway. But be honest, Scotty, you wish you could._

 

At the same time, he can't help but look at his home on the _Shadowbird_ with a new eye. He's claimed a corner of the ship for himself, well lived-in, his own touch changing his home to reflect his influence. The engine room would look oddly empty, if changed back to how it was when he first arrived. It's been his home for most of his life that he can remember clearly, and he fits here flawlessly.

 

But even though the captain's quarters on the _Enterprise_ are dusty and feel abandoned, they're also his, in a way he can feel deep down inside. There's more than a few crates of clothes and small trinkets picked up across a dozen worlds, more than a bed he had to make for himself, so much more than the four people he'd thought were the only ones who cared if he lived or died.

 

He just hadn't truly realized it until last night, when Bones talked his voice ragged to make up for Jim's silence, telling him years and _years_ of stories of himself. And though he couldn't say a thing, Jim could see it tear at Bones' heart whenever a shared memory didn't spark any recognition. And now Scotty, skillfully identifying the work that Jim's done as inspired by his own, speaking as though he doesn't doubt that Jim will say goodbye to his shipmates on the _Shadowbird_ and come home to _Enterprise_.

 

_They're going to make me choose._ And he honestly doesn't know which choice is the right one, either. Not after hearing his long history with Bones, not after seeing how much his half-remembered and vague impressions of Scotty have helped him make himself invaluable to Tafv and the others, not after seeing the fear in his shipmates' eyes that he'll abandon them to return to his former life as if they think they mean so little to him despite all they've done to make him part of the _Shadowbird_ 's family.

 

Footsteps approaching shake him from his thoughts, and he turns to see Bones stepping uncertainly into the engine room. "Jim, you in here?"

 

"Over here, doctor," Scotty calls out.

 

Jim scoots out from under the dilithium regulator manifold and wipes his hands on a relatively clean rag, certain that he's probably just as grease-smudged as Scotty is. The _Shadowbird_ will never be as sparkling clean as the _Enterprise_ , but Jim rather likes it, proof of his hard work staining his fingers.

 

Bones looks far more skeptical of the merits of crawling around under and into machinery, and he turns a withering look on Scotty. "He's supposed to be taking it easy, you know."

 

"He's fine," Desarr-Ka intercedes, leaning against a nearby bulkhead. "He's had to work in far worse conditions than this, right _ngosazhecu_?"

 

Jim nods, but Bones scowls unhappily. "I still want to see you in Sickbay, Jim. You had a seizure yesterday and I still haven't finished putting together a treatment plan for you."

 

"That _is_ why we came here," the Orion agrees, maybe a little reluctantly, but he gives Jim a nudge with his shoulder. "I'll come with you."

 

Jim smiles a little, appreciative of his shipmate's willingness to venture among unknown aliens for his sake. And Federation, at that. Hell, it still makes _him_ nervous and he's the captain. Old habits die hard, and all that. He turns to Scotty and signs an apology, wishing he could have a proper conversation with the man. But these last few hours have done wonders for his own mood, and Scotty doesn't seem to mind Bones ruining their fun a little early.

 

"Ach, Jimbo, don't worry yer head about it," the engineer says, waving a hand dismissively. "It's been good ta see what ye've been up to, and between me and you, you've done a bang-up job with this here bucket o' bolts. Reminds me of some of the more... er, _unorthodox_ fixes Jaylah used in the _Franklin_."

 

The name _Franklin_ means little to him, but the name Jaylah evokes a strange feeling of kinship, like the name of a little sister. Someone who shares a bond, the kind that comes from enduring a similar ordeal to something he's been through, and while he can't recall any specific details, it brings to mind a sense of deep loss and an oddly ravenous hunger, the kind that haunts his dreams on some nights and leaves him awake and gasping in the dark, unable to remember what disturbed his sleep.

 

And after the horrifically vivid memory that he relived yesterday in Engineering, Jim is a little less inclined to dig deeper to find out what's lurking in the shadows of his forgotten memories this time.

 

He follows Bones down the cargo ramp of the _Shadowbird_ , Desarr-Ka at his side, and makes sure his golden scarf is wrapped securely enough to hide his slave brand, feeling infinitely more at ease without the raised scar on display. _That reminds me..._ Jim taps the big Orion's arm to get his attention as they walk, and signs a question, gesturing to the back of his neck. He doesn't know the gesture for tattoo, but he's sure Desarr-Ka will understand what he's trying to say. _Skin image cover scar. Me also how?_

 

Desarr-Ka grins at him, as if he's been waiting for Jim to ask. "Arizhel did mine. She'd probably do you too, if you ask her. Did you have a design in mind?"

 

Bones frowns over his shoulder at them, turning to face them more fully as they enter the turbolift that will take them up to Deck Seven. "Design for what?"

 

"Tattoo to cover the brand," the Orion answers, slinging an arm around Jim's shoulders.

 

Jim leans into him, friendly and familiar, completely at ease. But then he frowns a little as a thought occurs to him, and he signs _rules_ to Desarr-Ka, raising his eyebrows in a question.

 

"Good point," the Orion agrees, and glances up at Bones. "Does your Starfleet have any regulations about that?" he says, almost in challenge. Like he thinks this could be something that might sway Jim towards staying on the _Shadowbird_ , if Starfleet won't let him hide the shameful mark.

 

Bones had looked surprised at the mention of Jim getting a tattoo, and a little concerned, but now his brow furrows deeper in thought. "Anything that'll be exposed while in uniform is generally frowned upon, but there are exceptions for cultural or religious reasons. Depends on what it is, too. Nothing obscene or offensive, or deliberately provocative."

 

Jim hadn't realized how fearful he'd been of Bones' answer until the knot of tension in his chest loosens, and though he still hasn't decided if he wants to go back to Starfleet or not... it's a relief to know that the option won't be completely closed to him.

 

"That said," Bones continues, as the turbolift door swishes open, letting them continue on their way toward the medical bay, "if you think I'm gonna let somebody ink you up without proper medical supervision, you're outta your damn mind. You could get all sorts of horrible infections if it isn't done right, and I really doubt that medic of yours has an actual medical degree from anywhere respectable."

 

Jim frowns at him, gearing himself up to try to defend Arizhel's skill, but Desarr-Ka cuts him off with a big belly laugh. "Don't let her hear you say that," he chuckles, and gives the doctor a hearty slap on the back. "But you're not wrong, doctor. What do you think, _ngosazhecu_?"

 

He makes a face, but nods, and signs _reasonable_. He knows Bones is just being protective, and knowing what he knows now about their friendship, he can't really hold it against him. And besides... Bones isn't trying to stop him altogether. _Help choose?_ his hands ask, and he looks at both of them hopefully.

 

Desarr-Ka ruffles his hair affectionately. "If that's what you want."


	35. Chapter 35

Jim may not remember much about Sickbay, but he's pretty sure he's just as much of a fan as he used to be, which is to say, not really. His head's feeling okay today, and _he_ thinks he's doing pretty well. Bones' near permanent scowl says the doctor thinks otherwise, though, and Jim sighs and lets him fuss, if it'll get this over with sooner.

 

Bones attaches some kind of blinking sensors to his head, and Jim reaches up to poke at the uncomfortable little devices, making a face when the doctor bats his hands away. "Leave it alone, Jim. I've gotta get some better long-term data on your headaches, and that piece of crap your medic calls a tricorder is so old and its calibration is so far off that it's a wonder she ever got any useful information outta you in the first place." As he speaks, he pokes at his tricorder, setting up the data feeds from the sensors to record on the device.

 

Jim resists the urge to roll his eyes, but he leans over a little to look at Desarr-Ka around Bones, and signs _bossy_ , drawing his index fingers away from his chin, one after the other after the other. The Orion laughs, and signs _behave_ back at him, flattened palms swaying back and forth in parallel.

 

Bones' eyes narrow at Jim, who pastes an innocent look on his face. "You told Uhura that you always have some level of pain," he says, apparently deciding to ignore that his patient is teasing him behind his back. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it right now?"

 

Jim considers that, then holds up two fingers. He can't really remember what it feels like to _not_ have a headache, the vague pressure always there, and he's pretty sure it isn't supposed to be. It's always in the same spot, though, and while he lacks the medical vocabulary to describe it, he taps the side of his head, where the scar cuts through his hairline, and signs _here_.

 

"Localized pain," Bones mutters, taking notes. "Not a surprise, given the cause. You hurt anywhere else?" He looks a little pleased when Jim shakes his head, although not much. "Any other regular symptoms I should know about? Nausea, disorientation, emotional disturbances?"

 

 _When hurt more,_ Jim signs, unsure how else to describe it, and he looks to Desarr-Ka for help.

 

"He has shown signs of those during his worse head pains," the Orion says, obliging him. "Otherwise, not often. Unless he has had a lot of ale the day before," he adds with a grin.

 

Jim can't help but smile a little, rolling his eyes at his alien friend. It's nice to have a little levity in a conversation like this, especially when the past few days have been so full of confusion and doubt. He can almost pretend that it's business as usual, a brief holdover between jobs, and that soon they'll be on their way to their next port of call.

 

But the illusion is a fragile one, broken the moment he looks at Bones, and remembers the doctor's rough voice recounting endless anecdotes, those hazel eyes looking at him in desperate hope.

 

* * *

 

When Spock arrives in Sickbay, he says nothing to draw attention to himself, merely observing. Kirk sits on a biobed, diagnostic sensors attached to his temples as Doctor McCoy runs an exhaustive series of tests on him. The Orion smuggler, Desarr-Ka, leans against one wall of the medical bay, translating as necessary, occasionally gesturing in Terran Sign to the captain, who replies in kind.

 

It is still somewhat disconcerting to see Kirk so quiet, though far more unusual is his newfound tendency to comply with McCoy's instructions. But regardless of his physical state, it is far better that he is present onboard than lost to them forever. Spock has endured the loss of his captain and his friend once before, and he has no desire to endure it ever again. Even if Kirk is ultimately unable to retake command of the _Enterprise_ , it is enough for Spock to know that he is both alive and safe.

 

Doctor McCoy glances in Spock's direction, drawing Kirk's attention to him also. "Captain," Spock says, stepping further into Sickbay, hands clasped behind his back. "The _Enterprise_ is currently en route to New Vulcan. With your consent, there is a mind healer that is both willing and available to assess the damage to your mind, and if possible, to stimulate recovery of memory."

 

Kirk listens attentively, and though his expression is one of interest, there is also fear in his body language, an odd nervousness that Spock is unused to seeing in the human. The captain places one arm across his chest, and uses the other to swing upwards towards his own face, fist closed save for his thumb.

 

"He wants to know if it is dangerous," the Orion relays, his own body language suggesting protectiveness of Kirk. An understandable attitude, though an inconvenient one, should it become obstructive.

 

"Good question," McCoy adds, raising an eyebrow. "We're talking mind melds, right?"

 

"Indeed," Spock agrees. "Even between Vulcans, mind melds carry inherent risk, though the odds of negative complications are acceptably low. Mind melds with humans are relatively rare, and a proper scientific study of the associated risks has not been performed." Spock does not usually speak of personal matters, particularly in front of strangers like Desarr-Ka, but the captain must have all the facts before true informed consent can be given. "My parents mind melded on numerous occasions with no negative effects. However, their marriage bond may have acted to mitigate any such complications before they arose. And the captain's present condition is inherently unstable, from a telepath's standpoint, of course."

 

Kirk appears resentful of that description, but he nods in understanding. He makes a tearing gesture with both hands, pulling them apart. Then extends the first two fingers on both hands, crossing them over each other in a sweeping gesture.

 

Desarr-Ka's eyes are dark with concern, and he frowns at Spock, lifting his chin in challenge. "Is there a possibility it could worsen his condition?" Spock cannot tell if he is asking of his own accord, or translating for Kirk, but it makes little difference.

 

"I cannot guarantee that it will not," Spock admits. "As I have said, there is insufficient research on the matter. However, Vulcan mind healers undergo rigorous training before they are allowed to practice their craft, and there will be no option more efficient than this. Doctor, how likely is it that Captain Kirk will fully recover his memories, if treated conventionally?"

 

McCoy frowns deeply, clearly displeased that he must consider such a thing. "Honestly, I don't know. Amnesia isn't straightforward to treat, like a broken bone is, and the severity varies from case to case. It's possible he'll get everything back in time, but it could take years. It's also possible he'll only ever recover fragments and flashes, like he already has." He grimaces, and turns to look at Kirk. "I don't like it, Jim. Letting someone into your head to dig up your memories gives me the heebie-jeebies. But it also might be your best shot at getting everything back. Might even help you avoid nasty flashbacks like the one you had yesterday."

 

The Orion frowns, apparently unaware of any such event. "Are you all right?" he asks Kirk, who gestures in response. The captain's reply is left untranslated, held privately between them, and Desarr-Ka's expression softens slightly in sympathy.

 

"It is your decision, captain," Spock says to Kirk, drawing the human's attention back to himself. "We will arrive at New Vulcan in approximately two days. I am available to answer any questions you may have about the process, and am willing to assist in your decision-making as much as I am able."

 

Kirk nods slowly, looking troubled but thoughtful. Spock expected no less of him. "There is another matter. Starfleet Command has ordered that you give testimony of your ordeal, once you are fit to do so. It is likely that a representative will rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ at New Vulcan."

 

Kirk and the Orion share a concerned look. The captain draws his extended index finger away from his chin, then curves his fingers and taps them against his shoulder. Desarr-Ka nods, but does not offer a translation for the others in the room.

 

_Fascinating._

 

"How's he supposed to debrief when he can't talk?" McCoy complains with a scowl. "Nerve regen's come a long way but it'll be at least a week before he'll be ready to try speaking, and he's not gonna be giving any speeches anytime soon. And getting an entire debrief in Sign seems like a recipe for frustration for _everybody_."

 

"I have no knowledge of Command's expectations," Spock says coolly, logically. "I only wished to warn the captain what will be expected of him. You are, of course, at liberty to file a complaint regarding these orders," he adds to the doctor.

 

"Damn right I will," McCoy snaps, though his ire seems to be turned from Spock towards their superior officers. He frowns at Kirk, who likewise appears skeptical of their orders. "You're still under my medical supervision, Jim. They can't question you without my say-so, and I'm not gonna let them get you alone."

 

The captain's response is one that Spock recalls him using the previous day, the one that Uhura had translated as a thankful gesture. But he appears no less concerned, as does his Orion shipmate, and Spock again wonders what they have discussed in plain sight, beyond his own understanding.


	36. Chapter 36

"We have to go."

 

Tafv had hoped there would be more time. As nerve-wracking as it is to willingly dock with a Starfleet vessel and trust its crew to act in good faith, rather than turning them in to the authorities as is their duty, it is an entirely different matter to go along passively as that same Starfleet vessel warps its way deeper into Federation territory. Especially with a representative of Starfleet Command waiting at their destination, someone who will probably be much less likely to allow the _Shadowbird_ to leave unhindered.

 

The crew of the _Shadowbird_ are gathered in the galley of their small ship, seated around the common table. Even Tytha's excellent cooking is not enough to soothe away the troubled frown from Kirk's face, and Tafv can feel his own brow furrowing in a similar expression. "This could be the only chance we have to get proper medical help for Jarok," the captain says, reverting to the name they best know him by. The Terran doesn't look like he minds either, and Tafv can almost fool himself into forgetting his true identity. "If we leave now, couldn't he have a relapse?"

 

"Yes," Arizhel growls, shredding a baked grain roll between sharp fingernails, taking out her frustration in the most harmless way available. "It is likely. Their doctor said that _seizure_ can be treated with drugs, but they will be next to impossible to find outside Federation territory, and _very_ expensive. Starfleet isn't going to pay for his medical care unless he's in their claws, and I don't know about you, but I don't make enough to pay for a lifetime supply."

 

Tytha's gentle hand rests on top of Kirk's, offering silent comfort. "You're assuming that he's coming with us," she points out, smiling sadly at their young Terran friend.

 

Kirk gives her a grateful nod, returning the regretful look, and reclaims his hand so he can sign to them all. _I go away, Bones angry sad. Other too. Trouble always, not stop look for me._

 

"It doesn’t have to be that way," Desarr-Ka protests, but even the Orion knows the truth, plain on his face when he looks at Kirk. Once his slave, bought for a pittance, now much more than that. A valued friend and companion, much as the ex-gladiator himself became to Tafv, all those years ago.

 

Kirk shakes his head, and though he looks distressed, he lifts his chin proudly as he signs to them. _You family always. I here, there, not-matter. You family mine._

 

Tafv had known in his heart that this day might eventually come. It doesn't make it any easier, now that it's finally arrived. Somehow or another, this damaged Terran has become a part of the family, and the thought of flying off without him is almost alien. Though they once had only a four-man crew, his absence will leave them somehow _less_ than they were before, without their silent young friend along for the ride.

 

"Are you sure?" Tafv asks him, already knowing what the answer will be.

 

Kirk nods. Since he's started learning Sign, the Terran has never said so much at once, but perhaps because this could be his last chance to speak with them, his hands move frequently and fluidly, pausing only long enough to remember which gesture to use next, or for them to understand what he wants to say. _Home here always. Home there always. Right choice sad necessary. I see you sometime maybe. Thank you very much. I never forget you._

 

Tytha puts her arm around him shoulders, and Kirk leans into the hug, a brightness in his eyes. "We'll miss you too, _aehval_ ," she says, and kisses his forehead.

 

Desarr-Ka looks torn, but he puts on a smile for Kirk's benefit. "Well if that's what you truly want, who am I to stop you?" The Orion looks back at Tafv, a hopeful look on his face. "We don't have to leave immediately, right?"

 

"If the _Enterprise_ is still two days from New Vulcan, we should leave no later than tomorrow," Tafv says, frowning. Every minute spent in Federation space makes him nervous, and he'll feel a lot better once they're back in Romulan territory. "Why?"

 

The Orion looks to Kirk, who smiles slightly and nods, putting a hand on the back of his own neck. "There's something Arizhel has to do for him first."

 

* * *

 

It's not the first time that the back of Jim's neck has hurt, but unlike last time, he feels no revulsion towards the new mark adorning his nape, temporarily covered by a sterile white bandage. Bones shakes his head a little as Arizhel packs away her equipment. "Only _you_ , Jim."

 

Jim smiles a bit, and resists the urge to poke at the bandage, or to strip it off entirely so he can see the finished artwork now covering the slave brand. But Arizhel threatened him with proxy punishment via Bones if he does anything to compromise the healing process, so he keeps his hands to himself. He can be patient.

 

As pleased as he is to have finally taken that final step to rid himself of the hated mark of ownership, however, it's oddly bittersweet. Because as his brand is being hidden from view, so too is his connection to his shipmates.

 

In the docking bay, the _Shadowbird_ is prepped to fly, and the others are waiting at the bottom of the cargo ramp when Arizhel and Jim arrive. As Jim approaches to say goodbye, Desarr-Ka steps forward and grabs him up in a big bear hug, actually lifting him clear off the deck. "I'm proud of you, _ngosazhecu_. Best investment I ever made."

 

Jim grins and thumps a fist against the Orion's back, and once he's back on his own two feet again, he signs to Desarr-Ka. _Thank you buy me. Best you._ And before the Orion can protest, Jim unwinds the golden scarf from its loose loop around his neck, pressing it into green hands. _You remember me,_ he signs.

 

"Couldn't ever forget you," Desarr-Ka answers, but he takes the scarf and wraps it around his wrist. "Thank you, Jarok."

 

Tytha is the next to wrap her arms around him, careful to avoid the bandage on the back of his neck. "The _Shadowbird_ won't be the same without you. Are you sure you'll survive on the food here? It's all synthesized."

 

Jim smiles a little and nods, but she's come prepared, turning to pick up a crate from the cargo bay. It's identical to the ones holding his few personal belongings, which have already been moved to the captain's cabin on the _Enterprise_. "I packed up the last of the _raktajino_ for you, and some of the leftover soup and fresh fruit from our last stop. It won't be easy to get any of this in Federation space, so I hope this taste of home lasts a little while for you."

 

He takes the crate, heavy with his favorite foods, touched at her loving gesture. It isn't the same as having a home-cooked meal every day, but it's enough. And he vows to make the _raktajino_ last, not knowing if he'll ever find another source again, one last tangible link to his home on _Shadowbird_. Jim sets it down at his feet and signs his thanks, the simple gesture so inadequate for how grateful he really is.

 

Arizhel grunts as he looks at her. "Don't expect me to hug you, _tera'ngan_ ," she says gruffly, but she betrays herself, thumping a fist affectionately against his shoulder. "It'll be good not to have to fix you all the time," she adds, and Jim rolls his eyes dramatically, knowing it's just an act. _Klingons..._

 

That leaves Tafv, who looks him up and down. "Well, _aehval_ , I guess this is it. You know, I thought 'Ka was crazy for wasting his money on you. I've never been so happy to be wrong." The Romulan puts out his hand, and Jim takes it, expecting a somewhat restrained farewell, maybe just a handshake. But Tafv pulls him in, putting an arm around him in a sort of fatherly hug, and a lump forms in Jim's throat as the familiar gesture strikes a chord deep within him. "You did well, Jarok," Tafv says, his own voice sounding suspiciously choked. "You take care of yourself, _Riov_."

 

_Captain._ Somehow, even coming from the lips of the man he's considered his captain these last few months, it still sounds right. What he's been meant to be all along. Jim smiles up at Tafv, and signs, _you too captain._

 

It tears out his heart to watch them walk away from him, the cargo ramp sealing closed behind them, locking him out. An irrational part of him wants to pound on the bulkhead and beg to be let in, to take him with them, back out into the black. But he turns and walks away, following Bones up to the observation deck, and watches the beautifully ugly little ship glide from the _Enterprise_ 's shuttle bay. She turns and rolls slightly from side to side in a farewell, and disappears into warp, vanishing into the star-studded expanse without him.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you all how pleased I am that so many of you are going to miss the Shadowbird crew! Makes me feel like I've done my job right. :) Of course, Jim's ordeal is not over yet...

Jim hadn't realized just how different life on the _Enterprise_ would be until it was too late to reconsider.

 

It isn't _bad_ , really. Everyone he's met so far has looked happy to see him, and he can see the relief in Bones' eyes whenever the doctor looks at him. And unlike his shipmates from the _Shadowbird_ , he is never the subject of suspicious looks or cautious whispers behind his back. But the parade of strangers is never-ending, a constant stream of people and names that all jumble together in his head, introduced only in passing before he's expected to remember them, and it never stops feeling awkward when he realizes he's already forgotten the names of people he just met five minutes ago. There are just so _many_.

 

And what he _does_ manage to recall is apparently random. Sometimes he sees an officer in red and remembers that she has a wife on Starbase Seven, or that the blue-uniformed crewman who just passed him in the corridor is the best violinist onboard, but he blanks on their actual names. Other times, the name leaps into his mind as easily as breathing, but trying to remember anything else about them makes him come up empty.

 

It's disconcerting, and a little disorienting. And there's no end to it, especially without his shipmates here to help buffer the constant flow of new information. But there's nothing he can do except smile and endure.

 

Because despite being surrounded by so many people, part of Jim feels lost and alone, adrift in the crowd.

 

It's a depressingly familiar feeling, and he's haunted by glimpses of a lonely childhood, constantly waiting for someone who never came for him, and a young boy not much older than himself who walked away one day and never came back. And he remembers sitting in a starship's medical bay, his stomach hollow and his skin too loose over bony limbs, surrounded by people in uniforms but no one stopping to ask how he felt, talking over him like he wasn't even there.

 

At the end of the day, when Jim steps into the silent captain's quarters, he has never wanted to scream so badly in his life.

 

The cabin has been cleaned, the bed linens changed, and dust zapped away from his personal belongings. But the rumble of the engines is so vague and distant, and he can't hear the sounds of others moving, breathing, living.

 

It's cold, sterile, and silent.

 

_I can't sleep here._

 

He does try. He curls up on his side, huddled under blankets that smell only of mild detergent, the bed oddly firm beneath him, and he fidgets, trying to get comfortable. But it's too _quiet_ , and it smells too strange, and his movements don't set the bed swaying like it would back home on _Shadowbird_.

 

Jim throws back the blankets and gets to his feet, then pauses, hesitant. He can't return to his hammock. The ship is gone. They left without him, at his own request. And he doesn't know where else to go.

 

Tired, restless, he does the first thing that comes to him. He heads to the doorway connecting his quarters to the neighboring cabin, and knocks on the closed door. He feels foolish all of a sudden, standing shirtless and barefoot in the bathroom, with no idea whose rest he is disturbing. _This was a stupid idea._

 

But before he can turn back to the refuge of his own quarters, the door slides open, and Jim's hand is halfway to his chest to sign an apology when he recognizes the crewman on the other side.

 

Spock looks different in black robes, loose-fitting and somber on the Vulcan's frame, his hair perfectly arranged as though he'd just come from duty, not bed. "Captain. Are you well?" He doesn't look surprised to be disturbed at this hour, and Jim reconsiders his impulse to apologize and resign himself to a silent, sleepless night.

 

If Spock knows Terran Sign, he hasn't said so. But Jim made do with charades for months before Tafv suggested learning it.

 

Jim makes a so-so gesture, tilting an extended palm from side to side. He puts his hands up next to his face and tilts his head as if resting it on an imaginary pillow, then shakes his head.

 

Spock is silent for a moment, watching his movements. "You are experiencing difficulty sleeping. Do you require medical assistance?"

 

Jim shakes his head. _I've taken up enough of Bones' attention for now... it's not worth waking him up just because I can't get to sleep alone._

 

He doesn't know what he wants, what he expected from bothering Spock so late at night, but the Vulcan shows no sign of irritation. "If you are seeking companionship, I have just completed my nightly meditation. I am willing to engage you in a game of chess, if you are amenable."

 

_A game?_ Jim remembers seeing the game board in Spock's quarters during his initial exploration, remembering the elegantly carved game pieces that look as though they would feel like smooth stones in his fingers. So he nods, and Spock steps aside to allow him entry. The Vulcan's cabin is comfortably warm, and the smell of unknown spices is stronger now, a wisp of smoke curling up from a black and gold lamp of some kind, recently extinguished. Spock turns up the lights slightly, enough to see but not enough to hurt eyes that are accustomed to the darkness.

 

Jim's feet guide him to one side of the low table, and he kneels on the padded mat as if he has done it countless times before, the padding almost perfectly molded to the shape of his knees and shins. He studies the game board up close, still frozen partway through a game that was never finished, but he can't quite remember the rules, knowing only that certain pieces can only move certain ways.

 

A steaming mug appears on the table at his elbow, and Jim looks up at Spock questioningly. "It is a Vulcan spice tea," Spock says, kneeling on the mat at the other side of the table, an identical mug in his hands. "You are fond of coffee, but I do not believe ingesting caffeine would be beneficial to you at this time, and you have often derided decaffeinated coffee as 'a useless waste of synthesizer rations.'"

 

Jim takes the mug between his hands and takes an experimental sniff, taking in the scent of the same kinds of herbs Tytha used to put in his tea after he had a migraine. But there are other scents too, other spices he doesn't recognize, and a cautious sip assures him that it's different enough that it doesn't taste like medicine either, the flavor mellowed by the addition of milk in the tea. He nods to Spock in thanks, letting the hot ceramic warm his palms.

 

"Do you wish to continue our game?" Spock asks him, and Jim turns his gaze back to the board, uncertainly. He shakes his head, and sets down the mug, ready to sign a reply before he remembers that Spock won't understand it. He instead gestures to the scar on his head, then towards the board and shrugs.

 

Spock contemplates that for a long moment, sipping at his tea. "You have forgotten how to play." It's phrased as a statement, but Jim can somehow tell that he's guessing, uncertain of the human's meaning.

 

He nods in reply, and Spock clears the board, configuring the multi-level playing surface into a flat grid and arranging the pieces by color, setting the black pieces in front of himself, and the white ones in front of Jim. "Then I shall instruct you, Jim."

 

The Vulcan is not angry or disappointed, not that Jim can tell. Spock expects nothing, simply regarding him with those dark, humanlike eyes, so full of patience. Willing to begin anew.

 

Jim smiles slightly and nods, leaning forward to listen and observe as Spock begins.


	38. Chapter 38

_Oh my God, he's gone again._

 

When Kirk doesn't open the door to his quarters at the sound of the chime, McCoy uses his medical override to get inside, fighting a wave of déjà vu. But this time, the captain is nowhere to be seen. The bed looks like it's barely been slept in, the sheets drawn back but only lightly rumpled, pillow still relatively fluffy instead of compressed from the weight of a human head. And a quick examination of the rest of the cabin turns up nothing either, no sign of human habitation, the computer screen dark and silent. But the crates of Kirk's things from the smugglers' ship are still there, waiting to be unpacked and added to the captain's personal effects, so he has to be around here _somewhere_.

 

McCoy steps back out into the corridor and moves one door down, signaling the occupant within. Spock can issue another search to find where the hell Kirk's sneaked off to now, and hopefully this time he doesn't turn up with another migraine, or worse.

 

It takes an oddly long time before Spock's door slides open, the Vulcan looking as impeccable as always in those casual black robes of his. "Spock, Jim's wandered off again," McCoy begins, but he quiets as Spock holds up a hand to stop him and steps to the side, letting the doctor see inside his quarters. "Oh."

 

Kirk is sprawled out facedown on Spock's bed, clad only in soft sleep pants, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow he has hugged to his chest, relaxed and peaceful in sleep. His breathing is deep and steady, his hair unruly and uncombed, and there's a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, not quite as dark as the fresh black ink on the back of his neck.

 

"He came to me in the night," Spock says, his voice low so as to not wake the slumbering captain. "I do not believe he is accustomed to sleeping in solitude."

 

"No, I guess he wouldn't be," McCoy says, lowering his voice to match, and resisting the itch to go take Kirk's vitals. "How was he?"

 

"Disquieted," Spock answers, "but attentive. I spent one point three hours re-teaching him how to play chess, but by the time all rules were covered and understood, the captain was fatigued to the point that a proper game was not possible. Allowing him the use of my bed was logical, as he seemed disinclined to rest properly in his own, and I shall continue to function adequately for a time without sleep."

 

"You big softie," McCoy says with a teasing smirk. As bothersome as it is to know that Kirk is having trouble sleeping in the one place he should feel the safest, it's also a comfort to learn that he had someone to turn to for help. And from his vantage point at the door, Kirk's sleep looks undisturbed, free of any nightmares or flashbacks. _God only knows how long that'll last._

 

"Do you wish for me to wake him?" Spock asks.

 

McCoy shakes his head. "No, it isn't urgent, he's just due for a nerve regen treatment today. He looks like he's sleeping well and I don't know if that'll happen again anytime soon, not once your mind healer gets into his noggin. And it's not like he's gonna be late for his shift or anything."

 

"Indeed," Spock agrees. "I, however, must prepare for alpha shift. Barring any complications, the _Enterprise_ should enter orbit around New Vulcan at approximately seventeen hundred hours. I assume you wish to accompany the captain to his appointment?"

 

"Damn right I wish. He's not going down there without me," McCoy vows vehemently. If he had his way, Kirk would never be out of his sight again. It's illogical of him, of course, but Spock doesn't say a peep about it.

 

"Very well. Should the captain awaken before my shift, I will contact you to collect him. If not, I shall leave him a message to proceed to Sickbay once he is presentable."

 

* * *

 

It has been a while since Jim has awakened and not immediately recognized his surroundings, though he isn't struck with any sense of panic or fear, he's just a little muzzy-headed with sleep. He rolls over and sits up, running a hand through horribly messy hair as he looks around. His gaze falls on the chessboard, still set up on the low table, and memory of the previous night returns.

 

_Right, I'm in Spock's quarters._

 

He pauses as that sinks in, and he does a double-take. _I'm in Spock's_ bed _. I don't remember that._ His cheeks burn faintly, and he hopes he didn't do anything inappropriate when his brain began to fog from exhaustion. He doesn't remember much past Spock's patient explanation of the basic rules of chess.

 

Either way, Spock's quarters are silent and empty. Jim's heart begins to sink before he notices a padd placed prominently on the bedside table. It lights up at his touch, displaying a text message.

 

_Jim, my duties require my presence on the bridge. I do not wish to disturb your slumber, and you are welcome to make use of my quarters if you are in need of additional rest. You may prepare yourself for the day at your own pace. Doctor McCoy requests that you report to Sickbay when you are ready. Lieutenant Uhura will be available to facilitate communication at your request._

 

The message is unsigned, but there's only one person who would've written this. Jim smiles a bit, glad that Spock did not abandon him because of anything he did the previous night, but that smile slides off his face as he considers the content of the message. Sickbay again. He sighs, and sets the padd aside. _Arizhel never fusses this much,_ he thinks, and is struck anew at the realization that the _Shadowbird_ is gone. It's not any easier to remember now than it was last night, and Jim closes his eyes for a moment, swiping a hand over his cheeks to wipe away the tears that are threatening to fall.

 

He doesn't regret his choice to stay with the _Enterprise_. But he does wish there had been a third option, one where he did not have to say goodbye to his shipmates, uncertain if he will ever see them again.

 

Jim reaches up to lightly touch the healing tattoo on the back of his neck, comforted by the last touch of his family on the _Shadowbird_. No matter what happens to him, no matter where he goes, he will carry them with him in his heart, and on his skin. He hasn't seen the ink on himself, but Bones showed him a picture of the design before Arizhel etched it into him. The lopsided arrowhead of Starfleet, a symbol to represent himself, surrounded by the names of his shipmates in Romulan script, interlaced together by letters they share in common.

 

For now, it will have to be enough.

 

Jim gets out of bed and pads back to his own quarters, seeking out a fresh set of clothes to wear after he's showered. He pauses, and digs into the crate of clothing from the _Shadowbird_ , pulling out the silver bracelet that he bought on Khazara colony. Wearing his uniform while not on active duty - while not remembering being the _captain_ \- feels wrong, but he misses the reassuring weight of the stripes on his wrist.

 

And if it's another reminder of the family he had to leave behind... he'd rather carry that with him, too.


	39. Chapter 39

Sickbay is mercifully uncrowded when Jim arrives, only a few biobeds taken up by recovering crewmen, and he musters up a friendly smile and waves to those who meet his eyes, reluctant to disappoint the crew - _his_ crew, he reminds himself.

 

"About time you stopped lazing around," Bones greets him when Jim pokes his head into the doctor's office. His gaze lingers for a moment on the bracelet wrapped around Jim's wrist, frowning momentarily before he shakes his head, dismissing whatever thought he had. "Have a seat," he says instead, gesturing to one of the chairs in the room. "I'm gonna run another nerve regen treatment on you today," the doctor says, picking up a device from his desk. "You'll need one every three days, at least until I can see how well you're responding."

 

Every three days doesn't sound too bad, but Jim wonders why they have to be so spread out. And without a translator present, he doesn't know how to ask, the question so far beyond his ability at charades to make himself understood. So he just nods, and sits still as Bones attaches the gently whirring device to his neck. It's cold against his bare skin, and he shivers involuntarily, unwillingly reminded of the tool that the slavers used to silence him in the first place.

 

But it doesn't hurt, a faint spark of warmth kindling in his throat, slowly sinking into the soft tissues, and he tries to loosen his deathgrip on the edge of his chair. _Bones wouldn't hurt me._

 

Bones is looking at him in concern, noticing the tension in his body. "You okay, Jim?" the doctor asks, and doesn't look convinced when he nods. "Just try to relax. The regen cycle will take about an hour. While that's going, I brought some stuff to start working on improving your writing."

 

To Jim's embarrassment, the doctor's 'stuff' consists of a padd loaded with simple children's books and a separate padd for him to practice typing. He gives Bones an offended look and crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

 

"You have to start somewhere, Jim," Bones says, fixing him with a stern but sympathetic look. "You aren't gonna jump straight into writing a dissertation right out of the gate. You have to start simple. Short words, one syllable at a time. You'll work your way up to more difficult words in time."

 

It's humiliating, and no less so because he knows that Bones is right. He hasn't tried to write beyond a few disastrous attempts early on during his time on the _Shadowbird_ , and while he knows exactly what he _wants_ to say, his hands just don't cooperate, the letters jumbling up in his brain whenever he tries. Numbers are different; there aren't as many to worry about, and aside from occasionally mixing up his threes and eights, they look dissimilar enough that they're harder to confuse. But letters...

 

Bones presses the padd into his hands, the letters on the digital keypad enlarged a bit as if it's meant for a child. "I want you to try duplicating words from the storybooks. Don't get upset with yourself if you don't get it right away. You're already doing great."

 

_I don't feel like I'm doing great,_ Jim grumbles in his own head, shooting a dirty look at the doctor.

 

What follows is the most tedious exercise in frustration that he can ever remember. It takes him several laborious attempts to just type out the word _dog_ , needing to check repeatedly which letter he's supposed to use next, and he has to erase his input and start over multiple times. It certainly doesn't help that the keyboard is all capital letters, while the words he's copying are in lower-case, making it harder to find the right button to press. It's oddly tiring, too, focusing all of his attention on struggling to copy a simple word.

 

By the time Bones removes the nerve regenerator unit from Jim's neck, he's only managed to spell out a handful of words, none of them longer than four letters. He grits his teeth, feeling a headache cropping up that feels less like his constant companion from these last few months and more like the kind he gets when he's under stress. He grips the padd and lifts it to hurl it across the room, frustrated as hell.

 

A hand wraps around his wrist before he can make good on his intentions, and he looks up, expecting to see Bones. Instead, Uhura smiles down at him, a sympathetic look on her face. "Hey, captain," she says, and he reluctantly relinquishes the padd to her, letting her look at the pitiful fruits of his labors. "Doctor McCoy said that you could use a break."

 

As nice as it is to have someone around that he can talk to, Jim is embarrassed and angry at himself, and he's homesick for the relatively unburdened life he led on the _Shadowbird_. Frustrated, he signs more choppily than normal, feeling a faint twinge of guilt for taking it out on her. _My name not captain._

 

Maybe he used to be their captain once, but not anymore. He can't even spell without a word to copy, can't write more than one word every five fucking minutes without messing it up half a dozen times, his brain still seeking out Romulan letters that aren't even there. He doesn't feel like _anyone_ 's captain right now.

 

Uhura pauses as she watches him, and he averts his eyes, furious at himself and unwilling to see the look of disappointment that is surely on her face. But she doesn't sound anything but apologetic as she replies. "Sorry, Jim. I didn't realize it was making you uncomfortable," she says gently, taking a seat in the chair next to his, in clear view of his hands.

 

Even his own name doesn't sound right, coming from her, and he clenches his jaw, ill at ease with the whole thing. It feels like sliding backwards, erasing months of progress, back where he started with a crew full of strangers he can't communicate with, and he just wants to go home. _Useless,_ he signs to her.

 

Dark eyes look at him in concern. "It's not useless, cap- Jim," she says, catching herself before she can use his rank again. "You just need to be patient. You're doing really well."

 

He shakes his head, unable to really believe it. If he was able to relearn this, surely it would be easier.

 

Uhura leans back in her chair a little, looking at him contemplatively. "Did you learn how to fingerspell?"

 

Jim stares at her, baffled. _Fingerspelling?_ Slowly, he shakes his head.

 

She smiles at him, her expression encouraging. "Here, I'll show you."

 

Learning how to fingerspell is harder than it sounds. He has new letters to learn, twenty-six new signs to memorize, some of which are similar enough to each other that he mixes them up sometimes. But it's also a familiar kind of learning, and he can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment when, after more than thirty minutes of patient coaching, he manages to spell his own name without needing Uhura to prompt him on any of the letters. In sign, yes, but it's a start, and the new signs flow hesitatingly from his fingers, copying the words that Uhura spells at him with her hands.


	40. Chapter 40

Spock has visited New Vulcan only a handful of times since the colony was established six point six three years ago, but he does not think it will matter how many times he sees it. It will never be home for him. The hot desert sands are the incorrect shade of red, the temperature fluctuations more extreme than that of old Vulcan, the days point seven hours longer, the year three percent shorter, the air thicker with oxygen. And a single lonely star shines down from above, the sky bereft of the light of three suns, empty of the sister planet that hung in the sky of his old homeworld.

 

It is not the same.

 

But he accepts that it is necessary, the most similar habitable world to Vulcan that is open to colonization. And it is not the first time that his culture has had to adapt so wholly to drastic change, when Surak's principles of logic transformed a violent, tribal people into the logical and ordered society that now exists. Still exists, despite Nero's efforts to eliminate them completely.

 

And while countless centuries of culture, art, and science are now lost at the heart of the singularity that engulfed his homeworld, enough yet remains to rebuild. Not exactly as it once was. But truly a new Vulcan, constructed from the ashes of the old, still bearing the scars of the Vulcan that was.

 

Spock reflects on these things as he materializes on the surface of the colony world. At his side, the transporter also deposits Kirk, McCoy, and Uhura in the courtyard of the Center of Healing.

 

Perhaps the captain has not beamed anywhere since his memories were lost, because he pats himself down as if to check that he has arrived intact, before he expresses curiosity in his surroundings, looking around at the world around him. The courtyard is arranged simply, planted with hardy desert foliage, rocks arranged in artistically logical patterns along the walkways. It is mid-afternoon in this part of the planet, and so the temperature is at its peak. Comfortable to Spock, but his human shipmates are already perspiring in the desert heat.

 

The Center of Healing is small, constructed of yellow native stone and imported reflective metal, lacking the same artistic flair and ancient feel of such places on old Vulcan. A Vulcan woman in plain white robes stands at the open archway that leads to the interior, and she raises her hand in the _ta'al_ as they approach. "Welcome. I am Healer T'Sen."

 

Spock returns the gesture. "We thank you for your hospitality, honored healer."

 

"This is the one who requires healing?" T'Sen asks, looking past him to the humans gathered in the courtyard.

 

"Yes," Spock says, turning to give Kirk an encouraging look. The captain steps forward, looking nervous, but displaying his customary bravery in the face of the unknown. "Captain James T. Kirk. Also present are Doctor Leonard McCoy, to monitor his physical condition, and Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, to facilitate communication as necessary."

 

T'Sen inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment, accepting the logic behind the necessity of their presence. "Come. You shall endure less discomfort inside."

 

"Warm welcome," McCoy mutters under his breath, but he follows with the rest of the group, transitioning from the courtyard into the cooler halls of the Center. Inside is quiet and peaceful, the walls unadorned by any distracting artwork or decoration, to ease troubled minds toward the proper mental patterns for meditation. There are many closed doors to ensure privacy to the occupants of the Center, and T'Sen leads the officers of the _Enterprise_ to one such room.

 

The meditation room has a domed ceiling, the floor forming a perfect circle, giving the impression of being inside a solid bubble. Instead of the typical padded meditation mat that Spock expected, there are thicker cushions more suitable for human use, laid out on the floor around the exact center of the room. "Be seated," T'Sen says, kneeling on the bare floor with no sign of discomfort.

 

Spock feels no shame in not doing the same, recognizing her superior Vulcan control, instead assuming the lotus position on one of the cushions. As he expected, and hoped, Kirk follows his example without hesitation, taking a seat within arms' reach of T'Sen. He still appears apprehensive, but there is trust there also, trust in Spock. Perhaps half-remembered, despite his injury, or perhaps reforged the night before, when Spock welcomed his friend and captain into his quarters, offering him a needed sanctuary. In either case, it makes little difference, the end result the same.

 

McCoy and Uhura take their positions also, the doctor sitting closest to Kirk, eyeing him in concern. "It's not too late to back out, if you want," McCoy says.

 

Kirk shakes his head and makes a motion with his hands, tapping a hooked index finger downward twice, then curls his hand into a fist with the thumb extended, using his other hand to push it upwards, palm flat.

 

Uhura smiles slightly, giving the captain an encouraging nod. "He says he needs the help. You're a brave man, Jim. We're with you."

 

T'Sen pays them no attention, gazing solely at Kirk, silently demanding that he meet her eyes through her presence alone. "Captain Kirk, I will perform a preliminary mind meld to assess the extent of the damage. I understand that humans tend to have disorganized thoughts, so please remain calm and clear your mind to the best of your ability. You may experience some discomfort, which shall worsen if you resist my touch. Do you understand?"

 

Kirk nods, and takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He doesn't flinch as T'Sen leans forward, placing her long fingers precisely on the psi points of his face. "My mind to your mind," she intones, closing her eyes. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

 

The captain's pupils constrict, and he shivers a moment before his face slackens, his eyes losing focus as his attention turns inward, beyond the realm of sight. Spock tenses slightly, illogically, and briefly runs through a mental exercise to regain his control. All that he can do now is trust in the healer's ability. And to trust in Kirk, and his indomitable spirit, to fight his way back to them.

 

Spock settles in to wait. He can do nothing else.


	41. Chapter 41

Jim had thought he knew what to expect.

 

Spock told him a little bit about it, the day he mentioned they were bound for Vulcan. A merging of two minds, brought together with the natural Vulcan ability of touch telepathy. An orderly, methodical search of his innermost self, laying bare all his thoughts and secrets, even those that he himself has forgotten.

 

But he hadn't realized what it would really be _like_.

 

He can _feel_ T'Sen reaching slender fingers past his face and into his brain, gently slipping through the cracks of his defenses, an alien presence winding into the deep parts of his mind. It's a new pressure in his head, slipping alongside the physical ache that is always present in his head, probing deeply into his soul. There are no alien thoughts alongside his, not that he can recognize as not belonging to him, no new memories blooming in his brain at the touch of the mind healer. No merging of his thoughts with hers. Just him, wandering through a strange fog, feeling her touches like shapes moving in the mist, just out of sight.

 

He feels uncomfortable, off balance, exposed, like being naked in a room full of strangers. He can't see anything from her beyond the roving pressure in his brain, but she can see him, and he fights the urge to pull away, afraid of what she can see within him, for reasons he can't quite articulate.

 

Then, suddenly, pain, spiking through his head and he gasps out loud, his breath sounding oddly far away in his ears. T'Sen's presence touches the same place again, gentler this time, but no less painful, and she withdraws slowly, carefully.

 

The fog fades, and he becomes aware of the world around him again, Bones' fingers on the pulse point of his wrist as he inhales sharply, trying to wrestle his thoughts back into some semblance of order, his head still throbbing as if from phantom echoes.

 

Across from him, T'Sen watches him impassively, her expression revealing nothing. And when she speaks, her voice is calm and even, entirely without emotion. "The damage to his memory is extensive. He has already begun creating alternative neural pathways for memory retrieval and retraining of lost skills. I may be able to stimulate the process with a deeper meld. However, I sense that a portion of his memories is likely irrecoverable."

 

Bones' grip tightens on Jim's wrist, fearful. "Irrecoverable? How much?"

 

T'Sen's face is impossible to read as she meets the doctor's eyes. "It cannot be quantified. Human memory is complex, and is stored non-linearly throughout the brain. As I am unable to access memories that he cannot, I am unable to say what events he will be incapable of recalling."

 

Jim had expected something like this, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. And at the same time... he doesn't know what to feel. How does he know what he's missing, if he doesn't remember it? Yet he still feels the pang of loss, mourning the part of him that he now knows he'll never get back, even if he doesn't know what it was. _How much of me is gone forever?_

 

But even so... he wants to try.

 

His head still aches as he looks at T'Sen, and he doesn't feel _right_ , like maybe her probing around in his head shook something loose or something. But his hands sign clearly to Uhura, a message for her to relay to the others. _Ready now._

 

"Very well," T'Sen says, and looks at the others. "Do not touch us during the meld. It is delicate work to reconstruct an alien mind. I must not be distracted."

 

Bones reluctantly lets go of Jim's wrist, sitting back though not by much, glaring at T'Sen in defiance. "I'll be right here, Jim."

 

Jim musters up a faint smile, not sure if he's trying to reassure his friend or himself. Then T'Sen is reaching for his face again, and he struggles to blank his mind, bracing himself for the strange alien feeling of the mind meld.

 

This time, the fog is deeper, thicker, wrapping around his mind like cotton, muffling all sound and fading his surroundings from view. T'Sen pushes deep into his consciousness, gently prying, and a river springs up out of the gray mist, sweeping over him.

 

_He's twenty-five, and an old Vulcan presses long fingers against his psi points, and buries his brain in the future. An exploding star, a desperate attempt to save a world, a grief-stricken man destroying everything. Powerful grief rocks through him, overwhelming, the pain of an entire world crushed into nothing, an entire people lost to the revenge of a single man. An unfathomable loss. And as he grieves for his people, he also grieves for the loss of a friend's innocence, far before his time, already so drastically changed from what he should have been. Deprived of a father, a caring mother, a happy childhood. All gone, because of him. Because he failed._

_He's eleven years old, and he jumps out of the car at the last possible moment, skidding across dirt and rock as he scrabbles at the ground, desperate for any last handhold to keep him from going over the edge. His fingernails break on the stone as he digs in just in time, his legs dangling over nothing, and far below him he hears the godawful screech of metal crashing and crumpling at the bottom of the quarry._

_He's twenty-four, lying in the grass on the lawn of Starfleet Academy, looking up at the star-studded blackness far above. The ground is cold beneath him, but there's a warmth on his left, and he turns his head to see Bones eyeing the stars with skepticism. "You really want to go up there?" the doctor asks, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped across his belly. "I guess you figure I'm coming with you." He is, and he grins at Bones, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "When I make captain, you've gotta be my CMO." Bones rolls his eyes, but there's a smile hiding on his lips._

_He's twenty-six, and he's too late. The old admiral stares sightlessly at nothing, smeared with blood and soot, a horrible gaping hole burned through his chest. Spock turns to look at him, sympathy in those humanlike eyes, but he can't think, can't process anything past the inescapable truth. He grabs at the white uniform, his eyes hot with tears of grief, and feels no signs of life under his hands. Numbness sweeps through him, and beneath it, a spark of white-hot rage kindles in his gut. The man responsible for this will pay._

_He's five years old, and he sits in his bedroom alone, watching out the window for any sign of his mother's hovercar approaching. The road is barren of traffic, and even as the afternoon gives way to evening, and then to night, she still doesn't come home. "Happy birthday, Jimmy," Sam says from the doorway, awkward and uncertain. "I made you a cake." It's lumpy and lopsided, and the frosting is thin and runny, but he appreciates every bite, glad that at least someone cares if it's his birthday. He is five today, after all._

_He's twenty-two, and his nose is broken by a truly epic punch from some asshole in Starfleet cadet red, flipping him over a table. He grins through the blood as it gushes over his upper lip, uncoordinated and drunk as hell, even as the meathead lifts him by the front of his shirt and belts him across the face. Somewhere in the background, he can hear that Uhura chick screaming, but it isn't until the piercing whistle slices through the room that the beating stops, and he cranes his neck backwards to see an upside-down officer with silver in his hair looking at him in concern and mild puzzlement, like someone just on the verge of recognition._

_He's twelve years old and crouched in a rotting field, a bony, starved rat clenched in shaking hands, his stomach screaming with emptiness. Too long to wait to cook it, and he can't risk a fire. He bashes it against a rock and tears into it with his teeth, almost gagging on it, and he forces the stringy raw flesh down, desperate not to waste the first thing he's seen to eat in days. The colony is dying, half of them slaughtered in one horrifying night, and every night when he closes his eyes, he can still hear the screams, can still see his aunt cut down by phaser fire, can still smell the bodies as they burned. He should be dead; he was on the list. Some days, he wishes he was._

_He's thirty and the_ Enterprise _is in her death throes. The ship is coming apart around him, sliced to ribbons by the strange swarm of ships that cut through her shields like they were nothing, and he doesn't know if Spock and Bones are alive, if they made it off the ship. He stands on the bridge and watches the planet loom larger and larger in the viewscreen, wondering if this is what his father felt in his last moments, the bridge finally emptied of everyone but him. And even as he steps into the Kelvin pod and ejects, watching the saucer of his beloved ship burning as she plummets towards the surface of Altamid, he knows that there isn't a chance in hell that everyone made it out._

_He's fifteen and sitting in a jail cell, whistling aimlessly out of boredom, lying on his back on the narrow bench. Nobody's come to bail him out, and he doubts Frank will get off his drunken ass to come collect him, so he might be here for a while. But that's okay. Better to be stuck in here than have to deal with that jerk. Maybe this'll get his mother's attention at last, even if it's only to yell at him. It'll be more than she's talked to him in years. He smiles grimly, and starts planning his next move. Maybe this time, he'll put a cop car down in the quarry too._

_He's twenty-five, and the medal on his chest feels light as a feather as he turns to face the newly-minted Admiral Pike, sitting in a wheelchair at the base of the steps. "I relieve you, sir," he says, his back ramrod straight, proud as hell. Three years in the Academy, and he's graduating to captaincy of a starship right out of the gate, success beyond his wildest dreams. But it's when Pike smiles at him and says, "Your father would be proud," that's what he's been waiting to hear his entire life. He feels like he could soar right on up into space without a starship, and his heart is bursting with pride._

_He's thirty-one, and Bones is too busy to go on shore leave when he pokes his head into Sickbay. He makes the doctor promise to join him for drinks, then beams down to start without him, intent on enjoying what little time off he gets. There's an interesting market down on the planet, and he's always on the lookout for new and interesting knick-knacks to add to his collection. Maybe an exotic bottle of booze or two, to share with Bones on some quiet night in the officer's lounge. He smiles to himself as he beams down, glad to get away from it all for a while, able to pretend - if just for a day - that he doesn't bear the weight of responsibility on his shoulders for four hundred thirty-three people._

 

The river of memories flows steadily and swift, not strong enough that it should sweep him off his feet, but something's not right. He staggers and stumbles, dragged away by the current, and gray fog encroaches on his vision, an odd buzzing in his ears as he's carried downstream, deeper into the dark.


	42. Chapter 42

McCoy has always been a bit wary of mind melds. Sure, they verifiably exist and he's seen the crazy shit they can do, but it's not something that he can monitor or measure scientifically, medically. And the idea of letting someone, even Spock, go digging around the dark corners of his psyche gives him the willies.

 

But Kirk has never seemed to mind. He's let Spock - both of him - go poking around his brain before, whenever the situation called for such a thing. And looking at him now, his gaze fixed on some middle distance while God-knows-what is going on inside his mind, McCoy can't tell if his friend agreed to this witch doctory because he's gotten used to going along with whatever he's told, or if he agreed because he's _Jim_. It's impossible to tell.

 

T'Sen's expression is so steady that she might as well be carved out of stone, betraying nothing as the mind meld drags on, and on. But Kirk is hardly an unmoving blank slate himself, reacting to whatever memories the mind healer is dredging up. And from an outside perspective, it looks like one hell of a rollercoaster ride. He laughs silently, grinning with that rogueish smugness that he was so prone to when he first came to Starfleet Academy. He goes through the motions of rage, fists clenched tightly, shouting voicelessly in anger. He cries, tears tracking down his cheeks as he sobs without making a sound. And sometimes, he has an odd look of desperation, his shoulders hunching in on himself like a wild animal trying to hide, his breathing harsh like he's been running flat-out for hours.

 

McCoy can do nothing but watch, a helpless observer, not even allowed to touch him.

 

But that's also the reason he notices the moment that something goes wrong.

 

T'Sen and Kirk have been in the mind meld for maybe an hour, and over the last five minutes or so, the captain has been showing stronger and stronger indications of a headache. A deepening furrow to his brow, a wince every time he's swung from one emotion to the next, a building tremor in his hands. None of that concerns McCoy as much as when he suddenly blanks completely, staring sightlessly ahead, and the tremor in his hands make his movements jerk strangely as he gestures, as if trying to sign.

 

"What's he saying?" McCoy asks Uhura, surprised to see Kirk trying to talk during the meld.

 

But Uhura is frowning deeply, watching the captain's hands repeat the same movements over and over. "I don't know... if he's using Terran Sign, those aren't signs that I know."

 

T'Sen's eyes open abruptly, and she breaks contact with Kirk, looking disoriented. Kirk doesn't react at all to the loss of her touch on his face or his mind, and when McCoy puts a hand on his arm, he can feel an unnatural tension running through the captain's body.

 

"Doctor McCoy," T'Sen says, her voice weak, "your services are required."

 

_Shit, I knew something was gonna go off the rails._ McCoy grabs his tricorder, already knowing what he'll find. Lack of response to stimulus, automatisms, excessive muscle tension, preceded by signs of a headache. The tricorder confirms it, showing him the multitude of misfiring neurons in Kirk's temporal lobe. It was one thing to hear that he'd had a seizure before, but part of McCoy had hoped that it was something else, or at least a one-time event.

 

"He's seizing," McCoy says, setting the tricorder to record every bit of data that it can. "Nothing we can do but wait it out. Shouldn't be long; complex partial seizures are usually two minutes tops. What the hell happened?" he demands, shooting a glare at T'Sen.

 

The mind healer has recovered her composure by the time she meets his eyes, regarding him with that maddening Vulcan stoicism. "I did nothing that would not have occurred on its own, given sufficient time. The human mind is disordered, and with structural damage of this nature, neurological disruptions are to be expected."

 

McCoy struggles to resist the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like any of that is _news_ to him. But he has a patient to focus on, and so he turns his attention back to Kirk, already mentally running through the list of antiepileptic drugs onboard the _Enterprise_ , trying to decide which one is most likely to be helpful for long-term management.

 

Kirk doesn't react when McCoy's fingers slide down his arm to the pulse point at his wrist, his hands still twitching aimlessly as he stares straight ahead. But as abruptly as it began, he blinks and turns his head to look at the doctor, a dazed look in his eyes, and it takes a few moments before he really focuses on the man kneeling in front of him.

 

"Hey Jim, you're okay," McCoy tells him, his first priority to make sure Kirk stays calm. "You just had a seizure. Do you remember what happened?"

 

Kirk slowly shakes his head, frowning faintly, and he doesn't make a move to sign anything, his hands now motionless.

 

"Is this normal?" Uhura asks, looking at the captain in concern.

 

"Yeah, it's called the postictal phase," McCoy answers, keeping his hand on Kirk's wrist, hoping the physical contact will help ground him, give him something to focus on as his brain reboots. "He'll probably be a little out of it for a bit. The confusion'll pass."

 

Spock looks at T'Sen, eyebrow raised. "Was the mind meld of any benefit to the captain's condition?"

 

"To some extent," the mind healer responds, calmly meeting Spock's challenging look. "Before the neurological event began in earnest, I was able to stimulate the creation of several memory pathways that bypass the damaged regions. He is not fully whole, and it is unsafe to continue at this time. Further attempts on my part will likely result in a reoccurrence. However, he has made significant progress, and will continue to improve with medical treatment."

 

_Well at least this wasn't a complete waste of time._ McCoy gives Kirk an encouraging look, noting that the lines of pain around his eyes haven't totally disappeared. "Got a headache, Jim?"

 

It takes a few moments for Kirk to nod, and the doctor adds slowed reaction times to the list. "Come on, let's get you back to the ship. I've got a hypo with your name on it."

 

* * *

 

Everything happens in a weird fog for a while. Jim knows that Bones is helping him, escorting him back to familiar surroundings, but his head hurts and he's strangely tired, and all he wants to do is go to sleep. It reminds him of something, but he can't think of what.

 

There's a hiss, and the side of his neck stings a little. He blinks heavily, frowning up at Bones. "Painkiller for your headache," the doctor says, but he's holding another silver thing... hypospray, that's what it's called, and he presses it against Jim's neck. "That one's to help with the seizures. I'll explain more once you're all the way back, okay?"

 

_Back? Where did I go?_

 

Jim doesn't fully understand, but he nods a little, turning over on his side. This bed is uncomfortable, and the beeping noise is distracting, but Bones is here, watching over him. He doesn't feel right, he doesn't know what's going on, but Bones means safety. And that means it's okay to let go.

 

Jim closes his eyes and drifts in the fog, a warm hand on his shoulder guiding him into rest.


	43. Chapter 43

"I don't care _what_ Command wants. I am not waking him up when he's still recovering from his brain cells trying to scramble the fuck out of themselves just so you can play Twenty Questions."

 

Bones' voice winds its way into the comfortable darkness, and Jim sighs, grudgingly following the sound to the surface of consciousness, like swimming up from deep underwater. He cracks open his eyelids, squinting against the brightness of the lights. _Oh. Sickbay. Again._

 

_...what happened this time?_

 

He closes his eyes again and contemplates that. He feels _weird_ , in a way he can't really put a finger on. And at the same time, he has the strangest feeling that something's changed, like finding something you thought you lost when it was in plain sight all along.

 

"I understand your concerns, doctor, and I have no intentions of needlessly antagonizing Captain Kirk. But he was held captive in enemy territory for more than five months, and Starfleet needs to be certain he hasn't been compromised." He doesn't recognize the voice, drifting from some distant point beyond the softly beeping biobed. It's a female voice, maybe middle-aged, stern but with hints of compassion underneath. "I fully understand his communication difficulties at the moment and Command does not expect a comprehensive debrief at this time. I just need to ask him a few questions."

 

Jim frowns. _Enemy territory? I was perfectly safe on the_ Shadowbird _._

_...in Romulan space. Oh._

 

_Yeah, I guess I can see why Starfleet would be worried about that._

 

He opens his eyes again, and looks around. Someone's pulled the privacy curtain closed around his bed, but things sound pretty quiet in Sickbay right now. Not counting Bones and the unknown person arguing, anyway.

 

Jim looks down at himself, a little surprised to see that he's still in the same clothes he put on this morning. Even the comfortable, familiar weight of his bracelet is still there. The only thing missing is his boots. _I must not have been out for long..._

 

He still doesn't feel quite right, but his balance is okay and his motor coordination seems fine, so he slips out of bed and moves towards the sound of the voices.

 

He doesn't spot Bones right away, but Nurse Chapel smiles at him from the nurse's desk. "Captain, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

 

It takes Jim a moment to remember the two gestures he needs for _O_ and _K_ , still new additions to his vocabulary. And by the time he's signed them to her, Bones comes around the partition, drawn by the sound of a one-sided conversation. He's followed by a woman in formal Starfleet gray, the insignia of a commodore on her shouldermarks. Jim's pretty sure he's never met her before, though now that he's thinking about it, he does recall T'Sen saying something about blank spots in his memory, things he'll never get back.

 

 _T'Sen... oh yeah._ That's _why I'm here._

 

He shakes his head a little, irrationally annoyed at himself for being so slow to put the pieces together, even though it's completely understandable under the circumstances. But he doesn't have much chance to berate himself over it, because Bones is there, looking him over. "You have a nice nap, Jim?"

 

 _Surprisingly, yeah._ Jim nods, but holds a hand up next to his head and wiggles it around a bit, trying to mime still feeling a bit floaty.

 

"That'll pass," Bones assures him, and sets down the tricorder, apparently satisfied with his present condition. "You're doing better this time than you did last time. Do you remember what happened?"

 

Jim tilts his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture, then puts his own hand on his face in imitation of T'Sen performing the mind meld. _That_ part, he remembers. Then some kind of storm of memory... but after that, very little.

 

Bones nods, but casts a cautious look towards the unknown commodore. "Jim, this is Commodore Thompson. Starfleet sent her to make sure you aren't secretly a Romulan spy or something."

 

Thompson glares at the doctor, though she doesn't deny it either. "Captain Kirk, my sympathies for your ordeal these past few months. I would not disturb your recovery if it wasn't necessary for the security of the Federation. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

 

 _I do, actually._ But orders are orders, so he nods reluctantly. But it doesn't make sense if Command sent someone who wouldn't be able to understand him, so he signs a quick question to her, gambling on her ability to comprehend. _You understand how?_

 

Thompson smiles only slightly. "I am fluent in Terran Sign, captain. I understand you've only been learning for a short time, so I don't expect a full report right now."

 

 _Well, that figures._ Jim nods again, sitting on the edge of the biobed, unconsciously keeping his back regulation-straight. _I hope this doesn't take long._

 

The commodore's questions are deceptively innocuous. Though she has clearly read Spock's report from the interrogation of the crew of the _Shadowbird_ , she still spends the first few minutes establishing their testimony as fact.

 

"What was your job onboard the vessel?"

 

"How were you treated by your captors?"

 

"When were your injuries sustained? How were they treated?"

 

But then once those are out of the way, the tone of the interview changes. Thompson stands with her hands clasped behind her back, watching him closely. "How long do you estimate you were in custody of the slave traders, before you were purchased?"

 

 _How am I supposed to know?_ Jim's head is full of memories he couldn't recall yesterday, but between beaming down for shore leave and waking up with his head in agony, there's just a big blank. He shrugs, not even able to guess.

 

Thompson frowns at him. "At any point, was there any indication that the Romulan government was involved in your capture?"

 

The idea is so ludicrous, Jim can't help an incredulous laugh from wheezing past his lips, a voiceless breath. He shakes his head, trying to find the signs to explain. _Crime all,_ he says, thinking back to those foggy first days after he was enslaved. _Secret place. No rules._

 

"And you had no contact with either the Romulan government or military during your absence?" she presses him.

 

He starts to deny it, but stops. Their last job. Jim grimaces and shakes his head, lifting his hands to sign slowly, precisely, not wanting to be misunderstood. _Last job take secret thing._

 

"The cloaking device, yes. You took it from a bird-of-prey, I assume?" the commodore asks, waiting for his nod before she continues. "How did you get onboard and leave without getting caught?"

 

 _I slave, they not stop me walk ship,_ he signs, getting a little uneasy with this line of questioning. _I break computer, open doors. Captain take secret thing. He look like them. They not stop him walk ship too._

 

Thompson eyes him skeptically. "And at no time did you trade Starfleet secrets for this technology. Correct?"

 

Bones has been scowling more and more as her questions have persisted, but he's held his tongue until now. No more. "How could he've _possibly_ done that?" the doctor snaps. "Assuming he even managed to remember anything like that, he wouldn't have been able to tell anybody, not even by writing them down."

 

Jim nods firmly, mentally cheering his friend. _Yeah, you tell her, Bones!_

 

"You're close to insubordination, lieutenant commander," Thompson says, a cold note of command superiority in her voice. "I am not accusing Captain Kirk of anything. I am under orders to investigate any and all potential security leaks, and _every_ possibility must be pursued, no matter how unlikely. If you are incapable of remaining silent until I am finished, you are welcome to leave. Am I understood?"

 

Jim recognizes that stubborn set of Bones' jaw, like a bull terrier refusing to back down, and he can't help a faint smile at the familiar sight of it. "Commodore, you may outrank me, but this is my Sickbay and in here, my title is _doctor_. And if I determine that you are harming my patient's recovery from an _epileptic seizure_ , I'm not the one who'll be leaving. Am _I_ understood?"

 

_Hot damn, Bones._

 

Thompson's face looks like she's just eaten a lemon, peel and all. "Perfectly, _doctor_. But make no mistake, Starfleet Command will be receiving my full report on the situation here. I suggest you keep that in mind."

 

Bones doesn't flinch one bit at the implicit threat, staring her down. "Will do, commodore."


	44. Chapter 44

From his vantage point on the observation deck, McCoy watches the courier shuttle take flight, vanishing Earthward into warp in the blink of an eye, taking Commodore Thompson with it after two days of her intense scrutiny. At his side, he can hear Kirk's sigh of relief, but he can't quite bring himself to do the same, his stomach caught up in knots. Doctor or not, there's every possibility that there might be consequences to his attitude toward the commodore.

 

He's not worried for himself, of course. He'd take the punishment itself gladly. But anything from reassignment to court martial would still have the same result... it could take him away from Kirk.

 

And he's fought way too hard to get his best friend back to let him go so easily.

 

On Kirk's other side, Spock stands at the viewport too, and looks over at McCoy, those irritatingly observant Vulcan eyes missing nothing. "Doctor, you are not pleased to be rid of Commodore Thompson, as I would have expected."

 

McCoy grunts, annoyed but unable to deny it. "Just because she's gone doesn't mean the troubles she brought us are done and over with, Spock. She's going straight to HQ."

 

Kirk looks puzzled, and he flutters splayed open hands towards his chest, before pointing at McCoy, and finishing it with an open-handed gesture, palms up.

 

McCoy has only just started learning basic Terran Sign, so he doesn't quite catch the first sign's meaning, just the gestures for _you_ and _what_ , but clearly Spock's been studying harder than him, because the Vulcan inclines his head a little and says, "I believe Doctor McCoy is concerned about how Starfleet Command may react to the commodore's report. Not without reason, from what I have heard of his conduct during your debriefing."

 

"Debriefing _nothing_ , that was a damn interrogation," McCoy snaps irritably. "After all you've done for them, Jim, you'd think they could give you the benefit of the doubt."

 

Kirk frowns, and pinches all of his fingers into a point, tapping both hands together, before waving flattened hands near his face. "Jim believes your level of concern exceeds expectations," Spock interprets, raising an eyebrow.

 

McCoy sighs. He'd hoped to put off this conversation, but now that Kirk is showing more signs of his old self, he knows damn well that he won't be able to placate his friend with the same vague reassurances as before. "It's not just my conduct I'm worried about," he admits. "Jim... how much do you remember about the requirements for command?"

 

Kirk's frown deepens, and this time, McCoy recognizes the sign for _some_. "Physical standards for a starship captain are higher than those for ordinary crewmen," he explains. "A permanent disability in and of itself isn't a career-ending injury; there've been captains with prosthetics before, and as long as they passed their physicals, they were still allowed to maintain command. But Jim... Starfleet has always frowned on giving command to anyone who needs regular medication to continue functioning, in case something happens and you're cut off from your supply. Especially when epilepsy's involved, or anything else that could compromise your ability to command a ship without warning. And even on meds, there's no guarantee you'll be seizure-free."

 

"There exists the possibility that you will not be medically allowed to return to command of the _Enterprise_ ," Spock adds, and even _he_ looks regretful at having to give Kirk the bad news.

 

But maybe Kirk had already figured this out for himself, because he doesn't look shocked by any of this, he just smiles sadly and nods. "I'm sorry, Jim," McCoy says, full of regret. _We got him back... but it could be one hell of a high cost._ "I don't know, maybe... did we do the right thing, asking you to stay?" he blurts out, before he can stop himself. Kirk looks up at him now, looking surprised and concerned. "If we'd let you go with that crew of yours..."

 

But Kirk cuts him off with that same hand-chopping gesture he'd used to stop McCoy from berating himself before, his expression one of determination and just a little regret. What he signs next, the doctor has no trouble understanding. _You family Bones._

 

McCoy can't speak past the lump in his throat, finally seeing a real glimpse of his best friend, still not wholly what he once was, but rebuilt enough out of his own ashes that he's clearly _Jim_.

 

Kirk has been so different lately, McCoy's been hesitant to believe that he would ever truly see him again. Little things, like his newly acquired dislike of cheeseburgers, and a newfound fondness for sautéed vegetables, when he'd always been an old pro at avoiding anything remotely healthy. Persistent things, like his continual struggle with writing, doing only marginally better with fingerspelling. And while McCoy has never really been into chess, Spock has reported that even though Kirk has picked up the rules relatively quickly, his playstyle is drastically different than it once was, using strategies he's never favored and avoiding some that he once used often.

 

And while some of it can be chalked up to the amnesia, it can't be responsible for everything. No one escapes head trauma unscathed or unchanged. Not even Jim Kirk.

 

But ever since the mind meld with T'Sen, McCoy has also caught him looking at the _Enterprise_ with that same devoted love that Kirk once held for his ship. There's genuine warmth and friendliness in his smiles when he sees McCoy, or Spock, or any number of other friends onboard that he once knew. And while he's still without voice, his nerves still undergoing slow repair, McCoy would be reluctant to call him _quiet_ , his hands gesturing freely to those who have begun learning Terran Sign to communicate with him.

 

McCoy had wondered how much of Jim that the mind meld had brought back, before the seizure stopped the whole thing in its tracks. But now, with Kirk looking at him with that familiar affection in his eyes, despite the sadness of knowing he may never sit in the center seat again... it's something he thought he might never see again.

 

_You too,_ Kirk's hands add to Spock, and while it's clear that he still misses his friends from that ratty old ship he arrived on, there's little regret in his expression for the choice he made to stay. _You all family. Not-matter me hurt._

 

It's stretching the limits of McCoy's ability to understand, but it's enough. He leans into Kirk and grabs up his friend in a tight hug, one that's immediately reciprocated, his friend embracing him the same way he used to before. "We're with you, Jim," he murmurs. "If there's a way to get you back in that chair, we'll find it."


	45. Chapter 45

"Okay, Jim. We're gonna take this slow, all right?"

 

Twelve days after Kirk came aboard the _Enterprise_ , his nerve function scans are finally showing enough improvement that McCoy feels confident in moving his treatment to the next step. The captain sits still as McCoy attaches nerve stimulator devices to his throat, and while his confidence has improved in leaps and bounds since the partly successful mind meld on New Vulcan, there's no mistaking the nervousness in his eyes and the tension in the set of his shoulders.

 

"You haven't used these muscles in a good long while, so the nerve stimulators are gonna give you a helping hand for a bit," McCoy explains as he calibrates the devices, ensuring that each one is positioned and anchored correctly to deliver a controlled electrical impulse to the damaged nerves. They're pretty small, about the size of a fingernail and just as flat against the skin, held in place by microfilaments that reach past the dermal layer, right down to the targeted nerves. "You'll need to build up your strength again, just like you would with any other muscle. It might feel a bit uncomfortable, but don't force it if it hurts, okay?"

 

Kirk gives a shallow nod, and he starts to lift a hand to poke at the uncomfortable devices attached to him before he apparently thinks better of it. Instead, he redirects his hands to sign to McCoy, who has to take a moment to puzzle it out. _Try now._

 

The doctor rests his hands on Kirk's neck, carefully palpating the muscles to determine if they're functioning correctly. "Start with something simple," McCoy tells him. "Just one word. Your name, maybe. Your choice."

 

Kirk swallows a few times, nervous, and McCoy can see him visibly psyching himself up for the attempt. No small wonder he's anxious; he hasn't spoken in half a year, after all. It's a wonder he even remembers how.

 

"You can do it, Jim."

 

The musculature under McCoy's fingers flexes hesitantly, sluggishly, the stimulators humming faintly as they lend their assistance. Kirk's first attempt at speech is barely a wheeze, and the captain grimaces, giving him a frustrated look.

 

"Hey, it's your first try," McCoy tells him. "You can't get _everything_ perfect the first time around. Try again."

 

It'd be easier to track Kirk's improvement with a tricorder, but McCoy has always been more of a hands-on kind of doctor, his own two hands telling him a hell of a lot more than just numbers on a screen. A tricorder wouldn't tell him one word about Kirk's obvious apprehension and self-doubt as he breathes out another soundless attempt, nor would it give the captain a reassuring touch on the shoulder, encouragement to keep trying.

 

Kirk's brow furrows in determination, and though there's still no real phonation, the faint whisper of his breath is more than just a simple toneless exhale, changed ever so slightly as he makes a valiant effort at articulation, though it's still not recognizable as a word.

 

"That's good, Jim," McCoy says, and though at least some of Kirk's progress can be attributed to the nerve stimulators giving long-paralyzed muscles a boost, there has to be something there for them to work with, or else they'd do nothing. Pleased, he drops his hands from the captain's throat and turns to grab his tricorder, ready at last to take new readings to supplement his manual examination.

 

" _Bonesss_."

 

Kirk has to exhale _hard_ to get the sound out, forcing air past vocal cords that have done absolutely fuck all for six months. It's rough and absent of any real voice, little more than a hoarse whisper, like someone who has temporarily lost their voice due to illness. But it's the first clear word that Kirk has managed since his rescue, and it's the most fucking beautiful sound McCoy has heard in half a year.

 

He turns in shock to face the captain, who looks damn near as startled as he does. Not for long, though, as the effort of producing the sound sends him into a coughing fit.

 

"Good God, Jim, I told you not to force it." McCoy fetches him a glass of water, and Kirk sips it slowly, letting it soothe away the irritation. "I told you, you'll have to work your way up to speaking for real. It's exactly the same as over-lifting weights; you can hurt yourself worse if you overdo it." But even as he scolds his friend, he can't keep a dumbass grin from creeping onto his face. No matter how stupid he used to think the nickname was, right now he'd be willing to hear Kirk call him Bones 'til the cows come home.

 

Kirk rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but there's a spark of triumph in his eyes, a hopefulness that McCoy has missed seeing, almost as much as he's missed the sound of his friend's voice. Water gone, he sets down the cup, freeing up his hands for signing. _What now?_

 

"Now, we change up your treatment regimen," McCoy tells him, waving a scanner over Kirk's neck. "We'll up the nerve regen to every other day, shorten the treatments from an hour to thirty minutes apiece, and I've got a set of exercises I want you to do twice a day. Do _not_ go overboard or you'll undo all my hard work."

 

Kirk puts his index finger against his lips and fans his fingers wide, then taps his palm against his other fist, the sign for _promise_. A year ago, McCoy wouldn't have taken him at his word, knowing that Kirk has an annoying habit of pushing his limits as far as he can take them, and then some. But this new Jim is somehow more agreeable than he used to be, more easygoing, and McCoy can tell just by looking at him that he wants his voice back as badly as the doctor does.

 

"Uhura's volunteered to give you a hand, if you want," McCoy says, drawing a curious look from Kirk. "Don't know if you remember or not, but she's quite the talented singer, and some of the exercises are the same things that professional musicians do to maintain a good singing voice."

 

Kirk's expression is one of amused skepticism, and he points at himself with a questioning look. "Don't sell yourself short," McCoy tells him, unable to restrain the smirk. "I've heard you sing in the shower before. You're not gonna be belting out showtunes for a while, but give it time." He sobers a little, though, not wanting to give Kirk false expectations. "I can't promise you'll sound just like you used to, Jim. The kind of damage they did to you wasn't meant to be fixable by your average doctor, and it's too old to heal fully. It shouldn't hurt you any, and you _will_ speak again, just... don't expect your voice to be _exactly_ the same as it was."

 

Kirk looks thoughtful, nodding slowly. He reaches up to touch the nerve stimulators attached to his throat, giving McCoy another quizzical look. "Those can stay for now," McCoy tells him. "In time, once you've built up your voice a bit, you won't need them anymore. But they'll make it easier to get started."

 

Kirk taps an index finger against his cheek, pointing towards his eye, then curves his fingers into a c-shape and turns his wrist to face downwards.

 

"Yeah, I know it looks weird," McCoy agrees. "But trust me, the crew doesn't care. They're just glad you're back." And perhaps now is the best time to bring it up... "Speaking of which, a lot of people have been asking how you're doing. It might do 'em some good to see you for themselves, and Chekov suggested throwing you a 'welcome back' party. You up for something like that?"

 

The touched smile on Kirk's face is worth a thousand words.


	46. Chapter 46

"Captain!"

 

The sheer _number_ of people cheering is damn near overwhelming as Jim's entrance into the officer's lounge is noticed. Someone has actually taken the time and effort to make a banner, hung across the viewport, that says WELCOME HOME CAPTAIN KIRK, and the space around the letters is positively _crammed_ with hundreds of signatures. Even from across the room, Jim can see the precisely blocked letters of Spock's name, the messy scrawl that belongs to Bones, the graceful loops of Uhura's signature. It must be signed by every crewman onboard, and Jim wonders how the hell they managed to get it done so quickly.

 

Jim ducks his head slightly as all eyes turn on him, unused to so many people paying attention to him anymore. Even with so many of his memories back roughly where they belong, it's hard to shake the habits of more than five months of servitude, of blending in and avoiding notice in a crowd, playing the part of the exotic Terran slave. But even though he _knows_ he's not quite himself, not the man they once knew, they're expecting him to be Captain Kirk.

 

And he doesn't want to disappoint anyone.

 

So he lifts his head and smiles, giving grateful nods to everyone that approaches and says how much they missed him, how happy they are to see him back onboard and recovering, and wish him well in his convalescence. Almost everyone is out of uniform, dressed in civilian clothing, but even without those familiar cues, he remembers more of their names than he did before the mind meld, a few more blank spots filled in.

 

"Captain, I can't tell you how great it is to see you." It takes Jim a moment to remember Hikaru Sulu, the helmsman greeting him with a wide smile. And though he can't quite place the reason _why_ , in his mind's eye he can remember throwing himself into a terrifying freefall above a red desert, reaching out for Sulu, knowing only that if he doesn't, the other man will die.

 

He must have succeeded, because Sulu is standing here in front of him now, healthy and whole. Jim smiles back at him, and now that he's thinking about it, he also remembers seeing Sulu walking away, a little girl held in his arm, the other around the waist of another man. _Your family ok?_ Jim signs, and Sulu must be one of those who's been learning from Uhura in his free time, because he doesn't need any help to understand.

 

A bright smile lights up his face. "They're doing great. Thanks for asking. Demora's been pretty worried about her Uncle Jim being lost."

 

 _Uncle Jim?_ Oddly, the child that comes to mind at those words isn't Sulu's little girl. Instead, it's a red-headed toddler, reaching out chubby little arms in a plea to be picked up. And behind the little boy, he remembers a young man with tousled blonde hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, his face oddly similar to the one that Jim sees in the mirror.

 

He shakes off the memory, setting it aside to contemplate later. Because Sulu's still talking, and Jim hasn't heard some of it, tuning back in mid-sentence. "-back to _Yorktown_ once the mission is over. It's hard to believe we've been out here almost five years already sometimes."

 

 _The end of the mission._ Jim had forgotten. Forgotten that they won't always be out here, where Starfleet Command is so far away, where the safe haven of Romulan space is so close. _No, not safe anymore,_ he reminds himself.

 

It's becoming easier to be Jim Kirk, little by little, day by day. Each day he remembers a little more, makes progress on relearning forgotten skills, works on trying to recreate old habits.

 

It's a lot harder to let go of being Jarok.

 

Sometimes he gets the feeling that they expect him to dismiss those five and a half months as not being important, just because he didn't know himself. Like they meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, a poor imitation of his life aboard the _Enterprise_. Illegitimate, maybe.

 

But that life was _real_ , and its influence is not so easily set aside.

 

Even now, eleven days after saying goodbye to the crew of the _Shadowbird_ , he finds himself wanting to tinker with the engines, or to find Desarr-Ka and challenge him to a card game, or go see what Tytha is making for dinner tonight. He wants to check in with Arizhel and listen to her affectionate grumbles about how weak Terrans are, and to ask Tafv all the questions he never got a chance to mention. He still finds the _Enterprise_ too quiet at night, his bunk too rigid and unmoving, and though he hasn’t mentioned it to Bones, he's spent at least one night sleeping on the floor rather than endure another night in that bed.

 

And now, listening to Sulu talk about the end of the mission, Jim realizes that it won't be long before even the _Enterprise_ might be left behind.

 

No matter what Starfleet decides about his captaincy, the _Enterprise_ probably won't be shipping back out for a while. There'll be inspections, overhauls, shore leave for her personnel. And even this familiar touchstone in his memories will be out of reach, at least for a time. _What do I do with myself after that?_

 

He pastes a smile on his face and nods encouragingly to Sulu, hiding his own worries beneath genuine happiness for the helmsman being able to spend time with his family. From the corner of his eye, he can see Bones frowning at him from across the room, like his Jim Is Faking It radar is going off.

 

But before the doctor can come over and call him out on it, Jim moves further into the crowd, mingling as best he can, shaking hands, giving friendly nods. Letting them see their captain, not wholly healed, but better than he was. They deserve the reassurance after his fate was unknown for so long, and especially now that he doesn't know if he'll ever really be their captain again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a happy chapter and then Jim disagreed. I am so sorry.


	47. Chapter 47

"Bones."

 

Even after weeks of treatment and notable improvement, Kirk's voice is still hoarse and rough, nothing like the clear, strong voice he once commanded. But even though he speaks only rarely, hesitant in a way he never was before, McCoy never tires of hearing it.

 

He turns around in his office chair to greet his friend, still unable to shake the fear that if he doesn't, Kirk will disappear again. It's irrational, and he knows there was no way he could've known what was going to happen, but he can't help the guilt he feels. If he'd set aside his work for later and gone on leave with Kirk, maybe the slavers never would've taken him, and he wouldn't now be struggling with such permanent changes to his health, and in all likelihood, his career.

 

Even just looking at him, it's impossible to forget, to delude himself even just for a moment into believing that any of the last year never happened. Though Kirk keeps his hair shorn regulation-short now, it only serves to emphasize the scar that cuts across the side of his head. Nor has he worn the gold shipboard captain's uniform since his return to the ship, unable to be cleared to return to active duty. And the civilian shirts he chooses to wear do little to cover the black ink on the back of his neck, itself concealing the permanent brand of his enslavement.

 

"Hey, Jim," McCoy greets him, and despite the constant visible and audible reminders of his failure to keep Kirk safe, he'll never turn down his friend seeking his time and attention again. "I didn't expect you down here for another hour. Something wrong? Getting another migraine?" It's certainly been a common enough occurrence, to the point where his daily dose of antiepileptics often comes with a painkiller chaser.

 

Kirk shakes his head and drops into the chair on the other side of McCoy's desk. "Want to talk," he rasps out, pausing only momentarily between each word, still having to make visible effort to produce each sound.

 

Something about the way he says that has McCoy reaching for the bourbon he keeps stashed in one of his office cabinets, and he pours them two glasses, sliding one across the desk to the captain. "Sure thing. I always have time for you, Jim."

 

Kirk picks up the glass, but doesn't drink, tilting it slightly and looking down into it as though he expects to find an answer at the bottom of the glass. "Okay with meds?" he asks slowly, raising his eyebrows at McCoy.

 

"Just one's not gonna hurt you," McCoy answers, nodding. "What's on your mind?"

 

He doesn't answer right away, sipping at the bourbon carefully, thoughtfully. It's still a little strange to see him so introspective, another reminder that in many ways, he's a completely different man now than he once was. Finally, Kirk sets the drink down the desk, absently rubbing a finger along the rim of the glass. "We did this before," he says, raising his eyes to meet McCoy's.

 

"Yeah, lots of times." It'd be easy to fall into the trap of assuming that just because Kirk's speech is halting and broken, that his thoughts are the same. But as a doctor, he knows that despite the captain's impairments, his mind is as sharp as it ever was, his intelligence untouched by the damage. So McCoy does his best to avoid treating Kirk like he's fragile, unwilling to patronize his friend, who has already lost so much. "You thinking of any time in particular?"

 

Kirk is silent for a moment, and McCoy waits, letting him take as long as he needs to find the right words, or maybe to recall the right memory. "Before thirtieth birthday," he says, speaking a little slower than normal, needing to take care articulating so many syllables in a row.

 

Of all the years McCoy has known Jim Kirk, of all the birthdays he's helped him drink away and forget, Kirk's thirtieth is still by far the most memorable, and the most tragic, damn near overshadowed by the loss of the first _Enterprise_ over Altamid. "When you were thinking about taking the vice admiral post at _Yorktown_ ," McCoy says, a knot of unease in his chest.

 

Kirk nods. "You said... didn't know how to be Jim."

 

McCoy frowns in concern. He used to be pretty good at figuring out Kirk's train of thought, and he's not sure he likes where this is going, if Kirk is feeling anything like he did back then. "I thought your memory was doing better."

 

The captain nods again, lifting one hand to sign _better_ in affirmation. "Not all. Enough." But he shakes his head a little, taking a sip from his glass. "Not the same Jim anymore. Won't be. Will I?"

 

A positive attitude is so important to any recovery that McCoy hasn't wanted Kirk focusing on his limitations, and this is a hell of a big one. But he also can't lie to his friend, and he grimaces. "Probably not, no. Injuries like yours, with such a long time before starting treatment... even with modern medical science, patients don't always make a full recovery. No one's ever really exactly the same as they used to be."

 

"Can tell." Kirk's hoarse voice falls silent again for a long moment, and he leans back in his chair. "Bones... _you_ okay?"

 

It wasn't the question he was expecting, and McCoy takes a hefty swig of his own drink, trying to figure out what the hell his answer even _is_. "I really don't know, Jim." And that's the God-honest truth.

 

Kirk looks at him in sympathy, but there's also a faint, ironic smile on his lips. "Me too." He sighs, toying with his glass, still half full. "Going back soon."

 

"To Earth? Yeah. Mission's over in six weeks." It's kind of mind-boggling to remember that they've been out here almost five years already, a completely unprecedented undertaking by Starfleet. No doubt there's going to be a media circus when the _Enterprise_ arrives in orbit around Earth. Every news agency in the Federation will want to cover such a prestigious event, and probably want interviews with the crew.

 

And the captain.

 

There's no way they won't notice the differences in Starfleet's golden boy. His damaged voice, altered speech patterns, memory problems, the scars and the tattoo... Kirk deserves better than to be put on display and have his private life ripped to shreds by drama-hungry journalists. But even if they keep him out of the spotlight, let Spock present himself as the captain, the rumors will be worse, as the media try to figure out why Kirk is no longer in command. Which is probably why Starfleet hasn't demanded that the captain be delivered to Earth earlier, wanting to avoid a public relations disaster before they have time to get their story straight, and giving him time to recover as much as possible. But even Command can't delay the inevitable.

 

"You ready for this?" McCoy asks him.

 

Kirk shrugs, and flutters his palms towards his chest in the Terran Sign gesture for _not-matter_. "Going anyway. Can't stop it."

 

"Yeah, guess so." There's no arguing with that.

 

But the old Jim might've done so anyway.


	48. Chapter 48

Spock hesitates for a moment before activating the door chime to the captain's cabin. Though Captain Kirk has still not been declared medically fit to resume his duties, no one has dared suggest that he be removed from what many consider his rightful quarters, and Spock would have refused to take his place if they had. Nor has the captain requested to be moved to alternate lodgings, often taking advantage of the connection between their quarters to seek out Spock's company when he is incapable of restful sleep.

 

But such thoughts will soon be academic. Tomorrow, the _Enterprise_ will arrive in orbit around Earth, signaling the official end to her crew's five-year mission in deep space. It is not the same ship with which they departed, but neither is her crew the same as they were when they left. There will be in-depth evaluations of long-term crew performance and health, commendations and promotions to be awarded to those who have distinguished themselves by their deeds, and in all likelihood, crew reassignments and redistribution to other Starfleet vessels.

 

There is no reason to expect that the _Enterprise_ will ship out once more with an identical complement as she bears at this time, as such changes are common and anticipated. There are always those who request new postings, those whose increase in rank requires a station on another vessel or starbase. And yet, most oddly, Spock is experiencing regret at this most logical change of events. Even if the captain had not been injured, it seems likely that upon their arrival back at Earth after the conclusion of their voyage, Starfleet Command would have promoted him and he would no longer be captain of the _Enterprise_ regardless.

 

Perhaps, Spock reflects, the difference is that in this circumstance, Kirk has little choice in the matter of his fate.

 

The door to the captain's cabin slides open, and Spock steps inside. Kirk sits at his desk, the screen displaying a number of exercises that the Vulcan recognizes as therapy to improve his ability to write. The captain has made significant progress over the past several months, though he has yet to approach the same level of literary skill he commanded before. The captain looks up at his entry into the cabin and smiles slightly. "Spock," he says, and even though by now Spock knows to expect the ragged, halting voice issuing from his friend, he cannot truly become accustomed to it.

 

"Captain," Spock greets him, and though Kirk has often insisted on being called by name rather than rank, Spock cannot bring himself to do so at this time. Anything less seems disrespectful, on the eve of Kirk's probable final day as captain of the _Enterprise_ , in title if not in duty.

 

Predictably, Kirk frowns at him, perhaps confused at the apparently abrupt return to formality between them. "Not captain since Ek Chuaj, Spock."

 

"I am aware," Spock says, clasping his hands behind his back. "But while I am officially commander of this vessel, the _Enterprise_ has never truly belonged to me. It is that of which I wish to speak."

 

Kirk's frown becomes a puzzled one, and he gestures for Spock to have a seat on the other side of the desk, moving the display screen aside. As he often does these days, he defaults to the use of Terran Sign, perhaps not trusting his voice to do what he wishes it to. _Talk about what?_ he gestures.

 

Spock has considered his words carefully for several days now, and now that the time has come to say them, he illogically hesitates before speaking. "Tomorrow is the final day of our assignment in deep space. We are due to enter Earth orbit at approximately eleven thirty hours, at which time the ship will be handed over to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers for evaluation and overhaul."

 

The captain nods, but he continues to appear confused. "I know."

 

"Captain... Jim... it does not feel correct for myself to command the _Enterprise_ as she returns to Starfleet," Spock admits, and where once he would have denied any accusations of emotional behavior on his part, he cannot do so today. He has long since learned the value of his human side, the legacy of his mother within him, and the strength it lends his human shipmates and friends. "I have spoken to Doctor McCoy on this matter, and we are in agreement. You are the rightful captain of this vessel. While you do not meet Starfleet's rigorous standards to be cleared for active duty, it does not feel appropriate to allow any other officer to supervise the completion of our voyage."

 

Kirk looks at him, a startled look in his eyes. "Spock...?"

 

Spock leans forward ever so slightly, holding eye contact. "Jim, if you are willing, we would see you in the command chair again, even if only this once. The _Enterprise_ departed Earth under your command, five years ago. It is only right that she return the same way."

 

It is not a logical desire on his part. He is well aware of that. But James T. Kirk has never been a man of logic, and his passion and impulsiveness are often all but contagious. After seven years of service together, Spock certainly cannot be blamed for being influenced by his friend and captain. And at this time, he wants nothing more than to see Kirk on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ again, no matter if it is only for a short time.

 

Kirk stares at him, speechless, and to Spock's concern, there is a watery sheen to his eyes. "I am sorry for upsetting you, captain," the Vulcan apologizes. He did not intend to cause more pain, especially not when Kirk has already endured so much distress.

 

"No," the captain protests, his damaged voice rougher than usual, and he swipes at his tears with his fingers, a sad smile touching his lips. "No, Spock. Not upset." He is silent for a moment, visibly collecting himself, regaining his composure as best he can. "Bones said yes?"

 

"He did," Spock agrees quietly. "You are within your rights to refuse, if you wish. We will support you regardless of your decision. The choice is yours."

 

Kirk is silent again for a long moment, and the expression on his face causes Spock's heart to ache in his side. "Thank you, Spock."


	49. Chapter 49

"Keptin on ze bridge!"

 

Stepping onto the bridge again is quite possibly the strangest thing Jim as experienced since his return to the _Enterprise_ three months ago. It's like something from a dream, shiny and spotless, officers standing at attention next to their stations. For the first time in months, the captain's stripes circle his wrists, the high black collar of his golden uniform shirt comfortably snug at the base of his throat. And in the center of the bridge, the command chair sits empty, turned invitingly, waiting.

 

As one, the bridge crew salute him, and Jim has to swallow against the lump in his throat, choking what little voice he's regained. Not trusting himself to speak, he salutes them back, drawing comfort from the warm presence of Bones at his elbow. He can almost fool himself into forgetting that he isn't here to stay.

 

Maybe Spock can tell that he's not ready to say anything, because the Vulcan turns to the crew and commands, "At ease." The bridge personnel return to their posts, but many of them cast encouraging smiles at the captain, and Jim is pretty sure he sees one or two of them subtly wiping their eyes. He can't really fault them for it, his own heart pierced to the root by the love and respect of his crew.

 

Spock stands next to the empty command chair, hands clasped behind his back, and while his expression is purely Vulcan stoicism, his dark eyes betray his compassion. "Captain," he greets Jim, "the ship is yours."

 

It may only be for a short time, but even with his voice back under his command, he doesn't have the words to truly thank them all for this one last opportunity to be their captain. And though it's difficult, he concentrates on speaking as clearly and completely as he can, putting in the extra effort. They deserve nothing less than his best. "Thank you, Mister Spock," he rasps, smiling at his friend. "Status report?"

 

He knows that his speech is slower than it used to be, sometimes seeming reluctant to roll off his tongue like he wants, but Spock has never once been anything but patient, allowing him to proceed at his own pace. "The _Enterprise_ is currently en route to Earth," the Vulcan reports, as if today was any ordinary day. "The _Potemkin_ and the _Saratoga_ are scheduled to rendezvous with us near the orbit of Neptune and will escort us to Spacedock at impulse."

 

Jim smiles a little, and he can't help but be nervous. There's bound to be a lot of attention on them all today, and even though he's _pretty_ sure he remembers his command training, he worries that he might get tripped up under the pressure, making some stupid mistake for the news to pick apart. The reassuring presence of Bones at his shoulder keeps him from spiraling down too far into anxiety, however, and Jim takes a deep breath and sits down in the command chair.

 

It's nearly exactly like he remembers.

 

The padding has compacted from constant use, and it's no longer perfectly molded to him, a little lumpy in odd places and packed down in others. But it still smells of the same synthetic leather, still swivels as smoothly as it once did, and while he's certain he'll never recall every single time he sat here, the view from the captain's chair is a solidly familiar one, the wide viewscreen displaying the rippling blue glow of warp against the star-studded velvet black.

 

It's a bittersweet taste of _home_.

 

"You doing okay?" Bones murmurs in his ear.

 

No one is looking at them, giving them some measure of privacy, and Jim taps two clawed fingers against the back of his other hand, the Terran Sign gesture for _nervous_. The doctor drops a hand on Jim's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. "You're gonna do just fine, Jim. You were born to do this."

 

_Thank you._ The well-practiced sign flows from his hands as easily as it always does, and yet it still doesn't feel like enough, nowhere close to adequately expressing the extent of his gratitude. He's come such a long way from a damaged discount slave without a name, without a past, without a voice, and while the crew of the _Shadowbird_ were responsible for helping him construct a foundation upon which to rebuild a life, it's the crew of the _Enterprise_ \- and Bones, especially - who have worked tirelessly to bring him home, as much as is within their power to do.

 

But Bones doesn't seem to need any more words, giving him that same sad smile he wears so often these days, understanding written in those hazel eyes even as he looks like something's tearing him apart inside, and Jim lifts one hand to cover the one Bones has on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

 

"Keptin, ve are approaching the Sol system," Chekov reports, a little hesitant, like he doesn't want to interrupt.

 

Jim doesn't mind too terribly. Sitting around stewing in his own thoughts isn't going to get him anywhere, and as he turns his attention towards the task of commanding a starship, old habits fall into place like half-remembered echoes, distant but familiar. "Slow to impulse," he says, his hoarse voice carrying across the bridge with more effort than it used to require.

 

Through the main viewport, the blue glow of warplight fades as the _Enterprise_ goes sublight, and twin gleaming points of silver begin their approach, arcing away from the blue orb of Neptune, slowly coalescing into the familiar classic shapes of Starfleet vessels.

 

"I have the _Saratoga_ on hailing frequencies," Uhura reports, swiveling around in her chair.

 

"Onscreen," Jim orders, subconsciously straightening his posture. He doesn't know if he's really ready for this. But he cannot avoid or delay it.

 

The starfield ripples and fades, replaced by the image of a starship bridge. The captain in the center seat isn't familiar to him, but she nearly leaps from her chair in surprise when she sees who is in command of _Enterprise_. " _Captain Kirk! What an unexpected pleasure to see you._ "

 

Jim musters up a smile, trying to ignore the twisting knot in the pit of his stomach. "Captain. Thank you for meeting us."

 

The crew of the _Saratoga_ do a terrible job of concealing their shock at the rough condition of his voice and the hesitant pauses in his speech, but the captain recovers her composure quickly. " _Our pleasure,_ Enterprise _. You've been gone a long time. Everyone on Earth is going to be pretty happy to see you. Is there anything you need before the news crews get ahold of you?_ "

 

Jim still can't remember her name, doesn't have a clue if he knew her before, but he decides that he likes her, whoever she is. She's clearly less than thrilled about the media's involvement in the flagship's return to Earth, a woman after his own heart. Nor does her subtle offer to assist him in avoiding the attention of a very gossipy news network pass him by unnoticed. But they're going to find out eventually, and he would rather have it be on _his_ terms. "No. Thank you." He smiles a little to ease the rejection of her offer, trying to project the confidence that they all expect from him, regardless of how he really feels.

 

The captain of the _Saratoga_ smiles back at him, not offended in the least by his refusal. " _Glad to hear it, captain. Sit back and enjoy the victory lap. You've earned it._ "

 

Jim nods gratefully. "Will do, _Saratoga_."

 

The viewscreen blinks off, returning to the view of the starfield, and _Saratoga_ and _Potemkin_ coming alongside the _Enterprise_ in honor guard formation. Despite his uncertainties and concerns over the future, and what will ultimately happen once they arrive at Earth, Jim feels a warmth settling in his chest, and prickling at his eyes.

 

And as he sits in the command chair of the USS _Enterprise_ , with Bones on his left and Spock on his right, he decides that he would never trade this moment for anything.


	50. Chapter 50

Just as predicted, the arrival of the _Enterprise_ at Spacedock is an absolute madhouse. Reporters swarm the docking umbilical, eagerly waving recording devices and shouting questions to the disembarking crewmen, luring a few aside for brief soundbytes to flavor their articles. But their true targets - the senior command crew - are bound by regulations to remain aboard until all other personnel have gone ashore, and so anticipation mounts as they wait, watching the stream of officers and enlisted crew constantly stepping out into the reception area of Spacedock.

 

As he often does, Jim has the vague impression that they've done this same song and dance sometime before, although he can't recall quite when. He sits on the bridge as the ship slowly empties, her great engines gradually spooling down as her warp core is shut down in preparation for a long rest, and the entire ship takes on an eerie silence, like a house with all the children gone. Like she's going into hibernation, waiting for her crew to return in the spring and wake her again.

 

Jim's hand absently strokes the control panel on his armrest, fingers brushing over familiar buttons and switches, rubbed smooth in places where frequent use has worn away the top layer of material. How many hours has he sat in the center seat, since he became captain? How many times has he called down to Engineering to demand more of Scotty, to push the great starship to her limits? How many times has he commed Sickbay, seeking Bones' input and advice?

 

He's officially been captain of the _Enterprise_ for seven years, but now more than ever, he commits this moment to memory, struggling to take in every last shred of detail, a weight like a stone settling into his stomach.

 

A hand lightly rests on his shoulder, pulling him back to himself. "Jim?" He looks up at Bones, becoming aware that the bridge crew are all waiting patiently for their captain to join them. "It's time to go," Bones says, his voice thick with apology.

 

Jim sighs, and gets to his feet, nodding reluctantly. He steps into the turbolift, shoulder to shoulder with Spock and Bones, his other officers a supportive presence at his back. And as the doors close on his view of the deserted bridge, he's haunted by the memory of stepping into his Kelvin pod and watching a burning _Enterprise_ fall away from him, plunging planetward to her ultimate end. Jim shivers a little, bringing him back to the here and now, as the turbolift drops them through the core of the ship's great saucer, closer and closer to the waiting crowds outside.

 

The noise escalates into a dull roar as the bridge crew approach the docking umbilical, and Jim's heart begins to race as irrational panic snakes its way into his chest. "Bones," he croaks out, and for once he's grateful for the deep rasp in his voice, disguising his fear.

 

But, of course, it doesn't fool his friends. Especially not Bones. "It's not too late to back out, if you want," the doctor murmurs, low enough that only he can hear. "I could get you a priority medical transport and beam you down without any reporters messing with you."

 

But Jim shakes his head. He can't articulate _why_ , but this is important to him, to perform his final duties as captain of the _Enterprise_. It's as difficult and painful as it was to say goodbye to his family on the _Shadowbird_ , his future just as uncertain now as it was then. The only thing that makes it bearable is knowing that his crew have his back, no matter what.

 

"Need a sec," he says instead. From here, he can see the crowd massed at the other end of the tunnel, and he turns to face away from them as if he's taking an opportunity to speak to his senior crew privately one final time before throwing themselves on the mercy of the media. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to force his heart to slow, to take comfort in being surrounded by his friends, his family, waiting not _for_ him, but _with_ him. Giving him as much time as he needs.

 

Finally, Jim raises his head and manages a weak smile. "Okay."

 

If he'd thought it was noisy before, it's nothing compared to the chaos that erupts the moment they step out of the _Enterprise_ 's docking umbilical and emerge into the reception deck. The journalists and onlookers are held back behind a holographic light barrier, security officers standing by to ensure that order is maintained. Reporters clamor for interviews, shouting questions that all blend together into hopeless noise in his ears, and before he really knows what he's doing, he's smiling on reflex and lifting a hand to wave in greeting, visually appeasing the eager crowd even as his crew subtly close ranks around him, as if to protect him from their scrutiny. A futile gesture, but one that's much appreciated, regardless.

 

Jim's gaze scans over the crowd, past the mass of journalists, and on to a group of mostly civilians, adults and children alike, standing in their own designated waiting area, and as Jim recognizes Sulu's husband and daughter waving happily to the helmsman, he realizes that these must be the families of his crew, assembled to welcome their loved ones home after their long voyage. An uncomfortable knot forms in his gut as he watches countless happy reunions in progress, his bridge crew breaking ranks now that they've escorted him past the gauntlet of reporters.

 

Sulu greets his husband with a kiss, and little Demora reaches out to her other daddy to be held, clinging tightly to him once she's in his arms. Chekov's eyes light up and he babbles excitedly to a young woman in his native Russian, her face and curly blonde hair so similar to his that they must be siblings, or at least cousins. Nearly a dozen people welcome Uhura with open arms, a varied mix of civilians in brightly colored clothing and a few Starfleet officers in formal black uniforms, everyone from young children to a dignified elderly woman that has to be Admiral Jakande, Uhura's grandmother. Scotty is already chatting with what looks like the entire Scott family, his accent so thick that Jim can't understand a single word. Even Ambassador Sarek is present, standing to one side with his hands together in a patient pose, calmly waiting for his chance to speak with Spock, who does not move to join him until Jim nods his approval.

 

Bones casts a concerned look at Jim, waving vaguely toward the crowd. "You okay with all this?" he asks, and beyond him, Jim can see a preteen girl bouncing on the balls of her feet as she stares at the doctor with hazel eyes, so much like Bones'. Of course. His daughter, Joanna.

 

Jim smiles at him. "Yeah. Go see Jo."

 

Bones gives him another look that quite clearly says he doesn't believe for one goddamn second that Jim is _really_ okay, but this must not be the right time to call him out on it because Bones nods, and gives Jim a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Don't go far. Admiralty wants us at Headquarters in three hours."

 

Jim nods, and signs _go_ at him. Bones finally heads over to greet his daughter, who throws herself at him in a damn near full-body hug, the likes of which can only be given by a child or an octopus. Jim smiles faintly to himself, happy for Bones, even as a hollow ache of loneliness sets in.

 

He doesn't notice anyone approaching him until there's a tap on his shoulder, and as he turns, he's grabbed up in a tight familial hug. Bewildered and caught off-guard, Jim freezes a moment before hesitantly raising his hands to hug the... man? ...that has him in a bear hug, and it isn't until the man lets go of him that Jim gets a good look at him. Recognition sends a shock up his spine, faced with the only positive presence he's managed to recall from his childhood, and the man's pleased grin falters as he gets a good look at the ugly scar on Jim's head, and the straight surgical lines of the silence-marks on his throat.

 

"Sam?" Jim rasps in surprise.

 

"Holy fuck, Jimmy. What the hell happened to you?" George Samuel Kirk demands, brotherly concern furrowing his brow.

 

"Long story." One that Jim hadn't been prepared to tell again right now, especially not with the media nearby, salivating over the opportunity to snare a juicy headline. It's hard enough to put through the effort of speaking so much already anyway. Besides, he has questions of his own, and he does his best to ignore the shocked pity on Sam's face as he carefully articulates his words. "Why are you here?"

 

Sam gives him a wounded look. "What, you aren't happy to see me?" he asks, putting a hand to his own chest. "My baby brother's back from five years in space, dealing with God knows what. Besides, Mom couldn't make it."

 

_Of course not,_ Jim thinks, bitterness weaving its way into his thoughts. He still hasn't remembered much about his mother. What he _does_ remember is an awful lot of disinterest in actually being there for him, starting with the earliest moment of his life that he can recall, waiting for her on his fifth birthday to no avail. It comes as little surprise that she isn't here today, either.

 

"The _Columbia_ will be back in Earth space in four days," Sam continues, oblivious to Jim's more cynical train of thought, and Jim can't help but be confused. What does the _Columbia_ have to do with anything? "Maybe once she's in town, we could go do lunch? You know, as a family. It's been a while."

 

Still baffled, Jim slowly nods. But before he can ask questions, there's a cry of, "Uncle Jim!" and then there's a red-headed eight-year-old tackling him at the waist, hugging the shit out of him, and Jim can't help but smile a little as his nephew grins up at him.

 

"Hey, Peter."

 

"Whoa, Uncle Jim, you sound _awful_ ," Peter says, brutally honest in that way children often are. "Are you sick?"

 

He can't really be upset. It's not like Peter knows better. And what the hell, it might help to practice talking about it, to someone who doesn't know enough to pity him. "Sort of. Let's get out of here, go somewhere quieter," he suggests, raising his gaze to meet Sam's, a questioning look on his face.

 

"Sounds good to me," his brother agrees.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dun goofed on my math for Jim's age, guys! He was thirty-one when this whole thing started, not thirty-two. So sorry. :/ Chapter 41 has been edited to correct this mistake.

"Somewhere quieter" ends up being a roadside ice cream stand somewhere in rural Oklahoma. The girl behind the glass gives Jim a curious, wide-eyed look when she sees his gold uniform shirt and the three silver bands around his wrists. She smiles shyly as she hands him an ice cream sundae, topped with extra nuts and whipped cream, but mercifully she doesn't ask him any questions, not even whether he's the famous Captain James T. Kirk. He puts an extra five into the tip jar on the windowsill with a small, grateful smile.

 

The picnic tables nearby are old and the paint is peeling, but they're sturdy and solid as he takes a seat next to Sam. Across from them both, Peter is already wearing half of his chocolate soft-serve on his face as he inhales it at warp speed. Sam chuckles and pushes a small stack of napkins towards his son, who dabs at his lips once, accomplishing just about nothing, before promptly ignoring them again.

 

"Kids," Sam says dryly, glancing over at Jim. His wry smile fades a little though as he gets another good look at his brother, and his own sundae sits untouched. "Jim... what happened?"

 

Out in the middle of nowhere, with only his brother and nephew to hear, it's far easier than he expected to answer honestly, poking at his ice cream absently with a plastic spoon. "Got taken by slavers," Jim says, and while he's leaving out a _lot_ of details to avoid traumatizing his young nephew, Sam has no trouble reading between the lines, picking up on what Jim _doesn't_ say. "Got hit on the head. Forgot a lot of stuff. Still remembering."

 

"Jesus Christ, Jimmy."

 

"Spent five months with smugglers," Jim adds, his heart clenching painfully at the thought of the shipmates he left behind. _God, I still miss them all._ He raises a hand to touch the tattoo on the back of his neck, and even though he can still feel the raised lines of the brand beneath it, he still takes comfort in knowing that the names of his comrades have overwritten it. "Still have problems," he admits. "Talking, writing, headaches. Seizures sometimes."

 

Jim risks a glance at Sam, a little relieved not to see that awful pity on his brother's face again. Sam still looks aghast, of course, but Jim expected that. "And they just let you go back to work like nothing happened?" Sam asks, a hint of outrage in his voice as he gestures towards Jim's uniform.

 

Jim shakes his head, looking away again, staring down into his drooping sundae. "Just today."

 

"Damn." Sam must know Jim better than he remembers, because that one word is heavy with the weight of understanding. The two brothers sit shoulder to shoulder, contemplating their slowly melting ice cream in silence.

 

It's Peter that speaks up first. "Does that mean you're not gonna be a captain anymore, Uncle Jim?" he asks innocently.

 

And that's the ten million credit question, isn't it? Jim sighs, and takes a bite of his sundae to stall for time, the cold sugary substance a shock to his tongue. "Don't know. Maybe not." He shakes his head. "Starfleet deciding. Have a meeting later."

 

Sam nods, looking nearly as unhappy about it as Jim does. "Good luck. Jim... is there anything I can do to help you out?"

 

He looks at his brother, and he can't help but smile a little, sad but grateful. "Already did, Sam. Thank you."

 

Sam nudges Jim's shoulder with his own, the look on his face much the same as Jim's own. "What else's family for?"

 

What else indeed.

 

* * *

 

To his relief, the media are _not_ invited to the post-mission assembly at Starfleet Headquarters. Now clad in his gray dress uniform, Jim sits with his department heads in the same auditorium where he once faced academic suspension over his actions in the _Kobayashi Maru_ test, the same room where command of the _Enterprise_ was officially passed from Pike to Jim, and a part of him can't help but wonder what the old admiral would have said about all this. Would Pike have been proud of his accomplishments? Would he have had some words of wisdom to pass on to his young protégé, now tempered with experience in command? Would he have fought against Starfleet for Jim, moving them to reevaluate the physical standards for captaincy, or would he have sat Jim down and given him a stern but caring pep talk about accepting his limitations and forging a new path? Jim will never know, and the grief of losing his mentor strikes him anew, the memory of Pike's death still cutting deep after all this time, an old wound recently reopened at the hands of the Vulcan mind healer.

 

Fortunately, he's not the only one a bit teary-eyed right now, as the board of admirals pass out promotions and commendations to the crew, one at a time. And despite his own bleak reflections, Jim is still proud of his crew, every single one of them, from the lowest-ranked enlisted all the way up to the top of the chain of command. He applauds with everyone else as Chekov is awarded with his lieutenant stripe, when Scotty is presented with the Starfleet Medal of Engineering Excellence, when Uhura is promoted to lieutenant commander and recognized for her linguistic accomplishments in deciphering unknown languages.

 

But he's still not prepared for the knife to twist in his heart when the admirals call forth _Captain_ Spock, and all the color seems to leech out of the room when Admiral Komack presents the offer to hand over command of the _Enterprise_ to him officially, not just as acting captain. Spock's reply is lost to Jim, muffled by the cotton that suddenly seems to be stuffed inside his head, drowned out by the terrible finality that comes with the confirmation of what he'd already known. All he can feel is Bones' hand on his knee, offering what little comfort he can give.

 

And then Spock is returning to his seat, and Komack's voice cuts through the buzzing in Jim's ears. "Captain James T. Kirk."

 

Jim steps up to the podium in a daze, and even though his memory still has holes in it big enough to fly a shuttle through, his training must have been ingrained pretty deeply because he isn't even conscious of his spine straightening as he snaps to attention, his posture regulation-perfect, and he tries not to feel like a condemned man waiting for his sentence to be carried out.

 

He doesn't remember the names of all the admirals sitting before him, some of them with open sympathy on their faces, others hiding it behind professional masks of stoicism. "Captain Kirk," Komack begins, "I speak for all those present when I saw that we're glad to see you safely returned to Earth. Our deepest sympathies for your ordeal."

 

Jim feels a sudden spike of anger like a hot ember in his stomach. What do _they_ know about what he's been through? How much he's sacrificed - is _still_ sacrificing? But he swallows it down, setting his face in a stony mask, bracing himself against whatever judgment they're going to set on his shoulders. He raises his chin slightly in acknowledgment, but says nothing.

 

At least they don't seem to buy into Commodore Thompson's ridiculous idea that he's been manipulated by the Romulan government. Small comfort, given what's sure to come next.

 

"Starfleet Medical has extensively reviewed Doctor McCoy's medical logs of your treatment and current condition," Admiral Komack continues, either ignoring or oblivious to Jim's ire. "I'm sorry, captain, but we cannot in good conscience allow you to remain in command of the _Enterprise_. Both for your sake, and for the safety of the crew under your authority. If you choose retirement, Starfleet will continue to pay for your medical care in addition to your captain's pension."

 

It's what he'd expected to hear... but with one exception. Jim narrows his eyes at the admiral, and he gathers his concentration to speak. " _If_ I choose?" he demands, raising his hoarse voice enough to be heard throughout the entire auditorium.

 

"There is a job opening here at Headquarters," Komack tells him. "And truth be told, we were already considering you for the position before your injury occurred. While we cannot offer you a post onboard a starship, we _are_ in need of a new Chief of Starfleet Operations, and it would be a shame to waste your talents and experience if you are willing to continue serving in Starfleet. Should you accept, your rank will advance to that of a rear admiral, with all the duties and benefits thereof."

 

_Admiral._ He'd considered taking a similar promotion before. And much like he did then, he feels strangely adrift, bereft of an anchor to keep him grounded. But he certainly hadn't expected Starfleet to even _try_ to keep him, if he can't be a starship captain. He'd fully expected to be gently, but officially, kicked to the curb, forcibly retired before he even turns thirty-two.

 

But they aren't doing that.

 

Not unless he chooses it.

 

Jim becomes aware that he's staring, and he tries to shake off the shock. Behind him, his crew is so silent that he'd probably be able to hear a mouse sneeze, the room collectively holding their breaths. Waiting for his answer.

 

It isn't what he wanted. But he didn't struggle so hard to recover just to give up now, either. And if he stays in Starfleet... maybe, one day... There is only one answer, and he lifts his head, facing the admirals - and his chosen fate - with dignity.

 

"I accept."


	52. Chapter 52

As it turns out, there is a hell of a lot of stuff that has to be done when you're promoted to flag officer rank.

 

After the assembly is concluded, Jim barely has time to really realize what the fuck just actually happened before he's hustled off away from his crew, and he has to stamp down hard on his rising anxiety as he's led from place to place by complete strangers. _It's not like I'm never going to see them again,_ he berates himself, but of course, the twisting unease in his chest doesn't give a damn about logic and reason, and it's difficult to keep himself from taking out his irritation on the young Andorian yeoman that's been assigned to escort him around Headquarters.

 

He's poked and prodded at Starfleet Medical, fitted for new uniforms at the quartermaster, given copious amounts of reading material to help train him up to the standard of a Starfleet admiral, and his brainwave patterns and voiceprint are updated in preparation for raising his clearance level, among a dozen other tasks. By the time everything's done for the day, and the yeoman drops him off at his planetside apartment in downtown San Francisco, Jim has worked his way into a grinding headache.

 

The apartment door closes behind him with a faint click, leaving him in an almost eerie silence. There are no memories to anchor him here, no recollection of any moments spent inside its walls. The wide open spaces are unsettling to him, the view out of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows unfamiliar, and he feels like a stranger in his own house.

 

This isn't home.

 

How could it be? He's been here so little that he can't even remember the layout of the place, and he's not in the mood to rediscover a place that should be at least passingly familiar. Though someone has cleaned the apartment of five years' worth of dust, it feels too stagnant, like standing in a long-sealed tomb. And while he did eventually feel comfortable in his shipboard cabin, that has a lot more to do with instant, easy access to Spock, letting him seek out a friend whenever the silence and loneliness got to be too much.

 

He won't have that here.

 

Jim slowly shrugs out of his dress uniform, gathering up the gray fabric and hanging it up neatly, respectfully. It's probably the last time he'll ever wear it, after all, before it's replaced by the mostly-white dress uniform of an admiral. And it's a little strange to go back to wearing civilian clothes, even after only a single day back in uniform, so he just grabs the first thing he sees in his wardrobe, a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and throws on a faded gray hoodie that might've once said PROPERTY OF STARFLEET ACADEMY at some point. It's not terribly familiar, but it is comfortable, at least. Unwilling to spend the time to explore and find the bedroom, Jim flops down on his couch, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his skull, and realizes that he has no idea what to do now.

 

On the _Shadowbird_ or the _Enterprise_ , he could go find a friend at any time and share a meal, or play a game, or just relax in each other's company. On a ship, there is _always_ someone nearby, always something available to do, something to fill his free time. But on Earth, alone... what is he supposed to do with himself? How is he supposed to keep his thoughts from retreading their darker paths, reminding him of things he wishes were still forgotten?

 

His reflections are interrupted by a chime from the door, and Jim frowns in confusion. Who might that be? It's early evening; surely Command is done with him for the day. Besides, his head hurts and he's tired, and definitely not up to entertaining guests.

 

But the door chimes again, and Jim sighs, dragging himself to his feet. He's not prepared to open the door to find Bones, who is carrying a plastic bag that smells like Chinese takeout. "Brought you dinner," the doctor says, inviting himself in before Jim can come up with anything to say. Bones moves straight to the kitchen counter and starts unpacking little white containers like he's done this countless times before, like it's nothing out of the ordinary. "You up to handling chopsticks or d'you want a fork?"

 

It's such a simple question, such a tiny little thing, but it's too much. Too much after such a long, tiring, emotional day that saw him kicked off his ship and _agreeing_ to a post that will leave him behind while his family sail off without him, that gave him a small taste of the constant demands on his time from total strangers that being an admiral will bring him, that gave him a glimpse of the silent, empty apartment that'll be waiting for him at the end of every day from now on.

 

And now, here is Bones, a steady constant in his life since returning to the _Enterprise_ , waltzing in like he's always been here and always will be, when Jim knows damn well that he'll be shipping out with the rest of them when the _Enterprise_ leaves next month. Leaving without him.

 

It's just a simple question, but it's the snowflake that starts the avalanche.

 

_What have I done?_

 

"Whoa, hey Jim, what's wrong?" Strong, warm arms grab him in a tight hug, and Jim is vaguely aware that his chest is heaving in heartbroken sobs, his eyes hot with tears, and he clings to Bones like a drowning man, burying his face in the doctor's shoulder. He can't answer, voice choked into silence, his heart full of grief.

 

_Is this what it was like for Pike?_

 

"It's okay, Jim. I gotcha," Bones murmurs, soothing hands rubbing circles on Jim's back, his voice shot through with worry, and Jim can't even say that he's sorry for upsetting his friend, unable to move away from Bones enough to sign to him and unable to even whisper past the thick lump in his throat. Unable to thank the doctor for at least trying, for sticking by him, broken though he is, even if Bones' presence is temporary too.

 

He's said too many goodbyes.

 

He has no idea how long he cries, how long Bones stands here with his arms around Jim, and when Jim's headache finally escalates to the point that he has to groan and pull away, he's not the only one whose eyes are red and swollen from tears.

 

Jim swipes ineffectually at his cheeks, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to regain something at least vaguely resembling his composure. It's harder than trying to push-start a starship. "What did I do?" he blurts out, the words slipping past his sluggish tongue before he can pull them back. "What did I _do_?"

 

He can hear a rustling sound and then a square of fabric is being pushed into his hands. Jim buries his face in the handkerchief, lacking the energy to even be embarrassed at being such a mess.

 

"You did what you had to do," Bones answers, and his own voice is a haggard growl, almost bad enough to match Jim's. "The only option that would still let you make a difference."

 

Jim's breath hitches in his throat, and even he can't tell if it was meant to be a laugh or a sob. "Don't want here," he says, too tired and too headachy to care about forming complete sentences anymore, not when Bones will understand anyway. He always understands. " _Alone_."

 

Bones had been digging into his medical bag, probably trying to find Jim's migraine meds, but he stops, and steady hands close around Jim's wrists, gently easing his hands away from his face. "You're not alone, Jim," the doctor says, clearing his throat.

 

Jim jerkily shakes his head. "Not now. You'll leave. On _Enterprise_."

 

He's not expecting Bones to look so _wounded_ , like Jim just stabbed him in the heart and gave the knife a brutal twist. "Jim... I'm not assigned to the _Enterprise_ anymore."

 

 _That_ startles him, and he stares at the doctor through red-rimmed eyes, uncomprehending. "What?"

 

"I gave it up. They need an experienced trauma surgeon at Starfleet Medical, and I've got five years' worth of papers to publish. Christine's going to be my replacement; she's been preparing to get her MD for the last year now. She'll make a great CMO."

 

But Jim can't stop staring, struggling to make sense of it all, as gobsmacked as if Bones had just announced that the sky is pink with green polka dots. "Why?" he croaks, baffled.

 

Bones looks exasperated now, and he slides his hands from Jim's wrists to his shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. "Because of _you_ , you idiot!"

 

Guilt wells up in his chest, stealing his breath again, and his fist automatically raises to circle _sorry_ against his breastbone.

 

"Stop that," Bones says sternly, but Jim can see the concern in his eyes. "Going out in space was _your_ dream, not mine. I never wanted to be out there without you; there's no point to it. Hell, that's how you got on the _Enterprise_ in the first place, remember?"

 

Jim slowly shakes his head, still aching fiercely and now whirling with utter confusion. _What the hell are you talking about?_

 

Bones' head rears back as if Jim just slapped him, and he has to take a moment before he can respond, apparently deeply affected that Jim no longer shares this memory with him. "When the call came in that Vulcan was in trouble, you had already been grounded for academic dishonesty. I was supposed to go up to the _Enterprise_ and they didn't give a damn if I liked it or not. You shook my hand - fucking _shook my hand_ , Jim - and told me to be safe, like that wasn't _my_ line. And then you just stood there looking like a kicked puppy and every step I took away from you felt like the wrongest thing I'd ever done."

 

Jim doesn't remember any of this, and even though his eyes are already sore from crying, Bones is getting blurry again in front of him, and his voice won't respond. He raises shaking hands and signs _next what?_

 

"What do you think? I came back for you," Bones says, as if no other answer was possible. Like it is an absolute fact of the universe. Sol rises in the east, Luna causes the tides to go in and out, Earth's sky is blue, and Leonard McCoy can't go into space without Jim Kirk.

 

A choked, hysterical laugh escapes Jim's throat, and he leans forward, resting his forehead against Bones', squeezing his eyes shut. Bones needs no explanation, putting his arms around Jim again, neither man caring that their dinner is getting cold, forgotten.

 

"I'm here, Jim. I'm not going anywhere."


	53. Chapter 53

Dinner is stone cold by the time they get around to eating it, but McCoy doesn't care about having to wait for it to reheat. It can be hard to know what's going on in Kirk's head these days, but it's pretty damn obvious that this has been building for a while. And the part that hurts most isn't that Kirk kept it to himself, or that he was willing to take a desk job and give up the _Enterprise_ , never mind that it wasn't an option to keep her. No, it's that he got it into his damn fool head that McCoy would _want_ to ship out without him.

 

Five constant years of space exploration have done little to make McCoy hate it any less. On the _Enterprise_ especially, anything can and will go wrong, and despite all the amazing advances in medical science that they've gained from contact with new cultures, there's also been a boatload of truly awful shit, including dozens of horrifying new ways to die. There's only one real reason he's stuck with it, and that reason is sitting across from him on the other side of the small kitchen table, picking at his Kung Pao chicken, looking absolutely exhausted.

 

_What a hell of a day._

 

Kirk's apartment dims as the sun sets, but neither of them move to turn on anything more than just ambient lighting out of deference for Kirk's headache, the lines of pain still etched in his face, still waiting for the migraine meds to fully kick in.

 

When McCoy breaks the silence, he keeps his voice low. "You should spend the night at my place."

 

Kirk lifts tired, red-rimmed eyes to meet his, brow furrowed. "Jo with you?" he asks, his voice rougher than it usually is these days.

 

"Yeah, but I've got room for you too," McCoy tells him, his heart somewhat heavy with the knowledge that, in a sense, he has to start all over with Kirk, discovering what pitfalls are lurking in his damaged memories. Like his inability to remember the time that McCoy risked his career by smuggling Kirk onto the first _Enterprise_ all those years ago. The mind healer, T'Sen, had mentioned that Kirk will never recover certain things, some snippets of his life, precisely which ones unknown until they're specifically brought up and found to be gone. What else might be also be missing, depriving him of the full context of their friendship over the years?

 

Hell, even McCoy hadn't truly been aware of just how deep into his heart Kirk had gone until he sat there in Headquarters and heard Jim agree to sign his life away to the admiralty, and McCoy knew right then and there that if Starfleet did not allow him to transfer to Starfleet Medical, that he'd resign from the service in a heartbeat if it meant staying close to Kirk. To willingly and _gladly_ give up what many consider a prestigious posting on the flagship of the fleet, to give up a promising career in frontier medicine, solely so that Kirk would not have to face an uncertain future alone.

 

And it _hurt_ to see Kirk so confused over that decision. Like he didn't think that he mattered, or he didn't think that McCoy cared enough about him to abandon the _Enterprise_ to stay with him, when as far as the doctor is concerned, it's a clear-cut decision requiring no debate at all.

 

_Oh, Jim... how much of me have you forgotten?_

 

But the look Kirk is giving him now isn't one of confusion, or that horribly lost expression he'd had when he'd opened the door to let McCoy into the apartment. It's a look of relief, like he's just been offered a safe haven. "Yes, Bones. Stay with you."

 

* * *

 

Bones' apartment is just as unfamiliar to Jim as his own, but somehow, it seems more okay. Like he shouldn't be expected to know where everything is, and even though his headache is still drumming away in the side of his head, the meds have knocked it down enough that he feels up to a little exploring.

 

The apartment is a little smaller than Jim's, but it's cozier, more comfortable. He shuffles around the place, refamiliarizing himself with where to find the bathroom, the kitchen, the guest bedroom. Joanna looks surprised to see him when he pokes his head into the latter. "Hey Uncle Jim. I didn't know you were coming over. Do you want the bedroom? I can sleep on the couch okay."

 

Jim smiles a little but shakes his head at her. "No. You get first dibs." The last thing he wants to do is kick her out just because he's too freaked out by being alone in his own apartment to stay there. He's sure the couch will be just fine. Besides... just being near other people, close enough to hear the subtle life-sounds of breathing and movement, that's better than a lullaby to him these days.

 

As he backs out of the guest room, another door catches his eye, and even though he knows what he'll find before he looks, he opens it anyway. Bones' bedroom is as tidy as he keeps Sickbay, everything in its proper place, the bed made up with tautly tucked sheets and covered with a warm-looking, hand-crocheted blanket in Starfleet medical blue. The walls are decorated with framed images of all sorts, ranging from professional portraits of people to candid photos to landscapes, and Jim notices that he himself is featured in a few of the candid shots, dressed in cadet red or civilian clothes.

 

One in particular catches his attention. The Jim in the photo is frozen mid-gesture, his arms thrown wide, like he's exaggerating about a fish that got away, and sitting shoulder to shoulder with him is Bones, caught in the middle of a dramatic eye-roll, but there's a fond smile on his lips, regardless of his annoyance.

 

They're sitting so close to each other in the image, and Jim gnaws at his lower lip as he considers it all. Bones means so much to him, and from what he remembers of their friendship, there's a deep understanding and respect between them. But in light of learning that there's even more that has been lost in the black hole of memories he hasn't recovered - can't recover - he can't help but wonder.

 

Even just since he came back aboard the _Enterprise_ three months ago, he's noticed that their relationship seems different than the friendships he has with his other senior officers. Closer, deeper, more... intimate, somehow. Bones has never hesitated to touch him when he's needed help, lending reassurance through physical contact, grounding him with the silent promise that he isn't alone in his struggles. Even his nickname is one that's reserved solely for Jim's use, like a pet name, and even just _thinking_ about calling him Leonard feels wrong on his tongue.

 

Now he's given up his life on the _Enterprise_ like it meant nothing to him, and if what he said was true... it _doesn't_. Not if it meant leaving Jim behind. And when Jim had broken down in his own unfamiliar apartment, Bones hadn't hesitated to embrace him, as natural as breathing, holding him tight to keep him from shattering into pieces.

 

_What else can't I remember?_

 

What is it that causes that awful sadness in Bones' eyes when he looks at Jim? Is it because he's no longer the same person as he was before, changed by his injuries... or has Jim forgotten something much more important? Is that why Bones looked so hurt when Jim remembered Scotty, but not him?

 

"Credit for your thoughts?" From right behind him, Bones' voice jolts him from his thoughts, and Jim turns to face him, trying not to look guilty for snooping. But the doctor doesn't look like he minds, an amused quirk to his lips, only partly masking his uncertainty. "You don't gotta look like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar, Jim. You're welcome to look around. You've been here a few times before but I don't expect you to remember."

 

_As a friend, or...?_

 

So far they've been letting him rediscover his relationships with his family from the _Enterprise_ on his own. No one has pushed him to reconnect beyond what he's comfortable with, letting him work at his own pace, sorting through the memories he's managed to recover and making his own decisions about how to reforge his lost friendships.

 

But until now, he's never been afraid to hear a reply to his questions, unsure of which answer he's even hoping for.

 

"Just thinking," he says instead, not really a lie, and he can't decide if he's more afraid to find out that he's wrong, or to find out that he's _right_.

 

Bones is giving him a look that says he knows there's more going on, but there's uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitation in the way he holds himself. And the doctor says nothing to call him out. "You should get some sleep, Jim. Let the meds do their work."

 

Jim manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he nods in agreement. "Thanks, Bones."


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A point of clarification, since there was some confusion: Kirk and McCoy were not in a relationship at the start of the story. There is mutual attraction but they haven't talked about it yet, and because he knows he's missing memories, Jim _thinks_ they might have been in a relationship. And as of the moment, Bones has no idea that Jim suspects this.

When McCoy wakes up the next morning, for a moment, he doesn't know where he is. It's been so long since he's been on Earth, his apartment is unfamiliar at first glance, and it's weirdly quiet without the sound of the _Enterprise_ 's engines. He lies there awake, listening to the wind whistling against the building, marveling at now novel it sounds, how different from what he's used to. _Is this what it's like for Jim?_

 

Kirk himself is still nestled into the couch when McCoy wanders through the living room, but even though he's trying to be quiet, the sound of the doctor's footsteps are enough to wake him. Kirk blinks blearily at him, rubbing at his eyes to clear his vision, and McCoy is glad to see no signs that his headache has persisted through the night. "Good morning, Jim. How're you feeling today?"

 

The captain - no, the _admiral_ , now - signs _okay_ with his right hand before getting to his feet, running a hand through his hair, which honestly does little to fix his bedhead. "M'r'ng," he mutters, trudging out to the little kitchen and punching in an order at the food synthesizer. A steaming cup of black coffee and a toasted sesame bagel materialize instantly, and Kirk takes them both, making a face when he sips at the coffee.

 

It's not the first time McCoy has seen him do that since he's been back. "Y'don't have to drink coffee if you don't like it, you know." It's not unheard of for likes and dislikes to change after a head injury, and although Kirk hasn't been shy about shunning his once-favorite cheeseburgers, he's still had coffee every morning like he always used to. Like maybe he thinks it's expected.

 

Kirk looks up at him with a slightly startled look, blinking like he's only just noticed McCoy standing there. "No," he rumbles, and clears his throat, making a visible effort to become more alert. "Do like it, just isn't _raktajino_."

 

"That awful Klingon brew that Tytha gave you?" It's certainly not something the doctor would like, if it tastes anything like it smells, but Kirk has been very sparing with his supply, treating it like a precious resource to be managed. Kind of like how Spock treats his Vulcan teas, come to think of it, now that it's become harder to come by.

 

"Mmm." Kirk's never been one to be terribly chatty after he's just woken up, so McCoy doesn't expect much more out of him as of yet. Which is why it comes as a mild surprise when Kirk looks at him and says, "Can't go back, Bones."

 

"To the _Enterprise_?" McCoy asks, frowning in confusion.

 

"No," Kirk says, but then reconsiders, an expression of raw sadness flickering across his face. "Yes. But no. Meant my place. Not home." He shakes his head, drinking deeply from his mug.

 

Oh, well that makes sense. "You never did spend much time there," McCoy agrees, moving to the synthesizer to order his own breakfast, a slice of quiche and a small bowl of cheesy grits. Not as good as what Momma used to make, but it'll do. "Y'know, now that you're an admiral and all, Starfleet would probably be willing to put you up someplace nicer if you wanted. Perks of the job and all that."

 

But Kirk frowns at him, ripping off a piece of the bagel and chewing on it thoughtfully. "Not the place that's wrong," he admits, looking a little nervous, although McCoy can't imagine what he has to be nervous about. "Silence."

 

Somehow, McCoy is pretty sure that he doesn't just mean the kind of quiet that could be changed by playing a little music, and his heart twinges with sympathy. After all... what was it that _really_ set him off last night? "You don't want to be alone."

 

Kirk stares down into his coffee cup as if it holds all the answers, and shakes his head slowly. "When I woke up... head hurt, knew nothing. No friendly faces. Couldn't understand." He lifts his eyes to meet McCoy's, and the doctor realizes with a dawning horror that he's talking about waking in the hands of the slavers, that act of cruelty being the first thing he was able to remember for a _long_ time, laying the foundation for Jarok, the man he became without access to his memories. "Then..." Kirk lifts a hand to his throat, fingers barely ghosting over the surgical scars on his neck, and he shivers. "Voice gone. Burned. Didn't know why. It hurt, Bones."

 

He doesn't know what to say, listening in appalled fascination. He'd gotten the general idea of what happened from Arizhel's tricorder scans, and a few simple signed conversations when Kirk was still entirely mute, but this is the first time he's really _described_ his enslavement, and it's ten times worse to hear it laid out like this. But he has to hear it, and he gets the feeling that Kirk needs to _tell_ it, and so he sits attentive, listening to every horrible word of Kirk's broken monologue.

 

"No name... no clothes, strangers all looking at me. Was damaged goods. No one wanted me. Didn't want sold, but... no friends, no one to help me. No hope." Kirk shivers again and looks away. "Was alone. 'Ka saved me. But every time alone... think of that."

 

What the hell does he _say_ to that? "God, Jim... I'm so sorry. I didn't realize." It's no wonder why he can't stand to be by himself anymore, why he's spent most nights these past three months in Spock's quarters, why he looked so devastated in his own apartment last night when McCoy came to check on him, thinking that McCoy - and the rest of the _Enterprise_ crew - was going to abandon him.

 

Kirk nods slightly, and the look on his face is one that McCoy's never seen before, something he can't even begin to interpret. "Bones... live with you?" he asks, hoarse voice fraught with hope and uncertainty.

 

After all this... the question doesn't come as a surprise. And McCoy doesn't want to give him the idea he's rejecting the idea, so he tries to pick his words carefully. "Jim, I'm not saying no, but I don't think you'll want to sleep on my couch for the rest of your life."

 

That weird look on Kirk's face isn't going away, and he stuffs half of his bagel into his mouth at once, stalling for time. But of course, he has to answer eventually, so it doesn't accomplish much. "You said... get new place. One big enough for both?"

 

"That's true," McCoy agrees, and he frowns as he looks around his own apartment. It's not like he has any real attachment to this place. There's no deeper history here like the McCoy homestead back in Georgia, no special memories keeping him here. And since he's going to be posted on Earth, it makes all kinds of sense to have a permanent residence that he's going to enjoy, especially now that he'll be able to spend more time with his daughter, who'll need someplace to stay too.

 

He looks back at Kirk, who is all but holding his breath, waiting for his answer. McCoy smiles a little. _Come on, Jim, you know I can't say no to that face._ "Sure, why not?"

 

Kirk gives him a shaky smile, letting out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Bones."

 

_Was he really that worried I'd shoot him down?_ "Don't mention it." That odd tension is gone now, and McCoy gives him the usual fondly exasperated look. "But let's worry about it after breakfast. My grits are getting cold."


	55. Chapter 55

He forgets about his brother's cryptic comment about the _Columbia_ until three days later.

 

Everyone from the _Enterprise_ , regardless of future assignment, has been granted three weeks of leave to be spent however they wish. Jim has been spending some of his downtime reading a classic novel from the twentieth century, a thriller about a spy with amnesia, and while the language can be a bit outdated at times and the politics are a bit beyond him, it's a riveting read, regardless. He's just getting to the part where the spy finds out his own name when there's a familiar chirping sound. Frowning a little, Jim tucks a scrap of paper in between the pages of the ancient paperback and opens his communicator, bringing up the text message that's waiting to be read.

 

_Hey little bro. Lunch today? -GSK_

 

Jim has been working hard at retraining his writing skills, but he still gets uneasy when he has to use them to communicate with others. He still has to use relatively short, simple words, and even though he no longer needs to double check how to spell them, it's hard to look at his efforts and remember how much more eloquently he used to write.

 

But his speech difficulties have also taught him how to be clear and concise to avoid tiring himself out, budgeting his words with care, and he's found that applying that to writing as well helps him not be as frustrated with himself. Jim lifts the communicator and types a response slowly, carefully. _OK where? :)_

 

Sam's response only takes moments, and Jim envies him the ability to reply so quickly. _There's an Italian place downtown that opened while you were out gallivanting around the cosmos. Need a ride?_

 

Jim stares at the message, mixed feelings nagging at him, surprised and touched at his brother's offer, another part of him embarrassed that Sam knows that Jim isn't medically cleared to drive himself. But if Sam doesn't make a big deal out of it... well, that's something to be grateful for, he supposes, and he texts back a simple _yes_ , pressing the button to automatically attach his coordinates. After all, even if Sam does somehow know where Jim's apartment is, he hasn't actually been there for days, just a brief visit on day two of being Earthside to pack up some clothes and other necessities. The rest of his stuff from the _Enterprise_ was shipped straight to Bones' place, saving a hell of a lot of time for everyone.

 

Bones is sitting on the other side of the living room, engrossed in reading some kind of overly complicated medical journal, but he looks up and raises an eyebrow when he sees what Jim is up to. "Who're you talking to?"

 

"Sam," Jim answers, giving him a small smile. "Lunch plans."

 

The doctor looks surprised, and Jim can't help but wonder why. _Has Bones ever met Sam?_ "Your brother? I didn't know you two had made plans. Is your mom going too?"

 

Jim frowns, a twinge of uncertainty curling up in his chest. "Mom?" he repeats, puzzled.

 

"Yeah, the _Columbia_ was due to dock an hour ago," Bones says, sounding almost as confused as Jim feels. But there's a dawning realization in his eyes, and he sets aside the padd, giving Jim his full attention. "Jim, your mother is the science officer on the USS _Columbia_. They've been out on a survey mission for the past six months."

 

It sounds vaguely familiar, knowing where she was posted, but the last clear memory Jim has of his mother is a stern, disinterested lecture when he was sixteen and she had to fly all the way to New Orleans to bail him out of jail again. "This is the last time I'm coming for you, Jimmy," she had told him, and he knew that she meant every word. "When are you going to stop this childish nonsense and _do_ something with your life? Your father would be so disappointed in you."

 

After that... he doesn't remember speaking to her at all.

 

Jim looks at Bones, uncertain, and there's that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach whenever he stumbles across something he's still forgotten, something he can't remember no matter how hard he tries. "Bones..." Words fail him, and his hands move of their own accord, asking the question he can't voice. _She talk me when?_

 

"When did she talk to you? Well, you call her every year on your birthday," Bones says, frowning deeply, like he doesn't understand. "So probably when you turned thirty-one."

 

Jim shakes his head, struggling to accept that, when the last thing he remembers of her are those angry words, spoken to a troubled teenager. "No... Bones... don't remember. She cares since _when_?"

 

Shock ripples across Bones' face now, followed by a sympathetic sort of sadness. "You two made up when you were promoted to captain, after the _Narada_ incident. I got the feeling you weren't as close as you wanted to be, but you were both putting in the effort to at least try to get along. You don't remember?"

 

Jim's getting quite tired of that question, because he nearly always has the same answer. "No," he says, trying not to get too snippy about it. It's not Bones' fault that his memory is so messed up, that he can't recall important events in his own life, and he sighs, frustrated. "Tired of starting over." It seems like all he's done since the moment he woke up with a blank slate where his memories used to be, rebuilding himself into Jarok, then into Captain Kirk, and now... now who is he?

 

"I know, Jim. I'm sorry." There's nothing Bones can do to fix this, and Jim knows that it's tearing him apart too, helpless to restore him to full health. It must be terrible for him, the man who dragged Jim from the clutches of death, when by all standards of reason such a thing should have been entirely impossible.

 

But still he's stuck by Jim throughout this whole terrible ordeal, and for that, Jim will love him forever.

 

"You want me to go with you?" Bones asks, looking at him in concern.

 

Part of Jim wants to say yes. Of course he wants Bones at his side, every day, to lean on his unwavering support and guidance through these tough times. But he also knows he has to learn how to handle things like this on his own, to exercise his courage to face the consequences of his changed reality, and give Bones time to breathe, to focus on himself - and take the opportunity to spend time with Joanna - rather than constantly have to reassure Jim in the face of such ordinary obstacles.

 

And if Jim can't face down his own mother over lunch, what kind of admiral will he turn out to be?

 

_Besides, I'm pretty sure I outrank her._

 

So he shakes his head, and gives Bones a grateful look, touching his hand to his chin in the sign for _thank you_. "No. I'm okay." And as he passes by Bones, on his way to find something more suitable to wear in public, he drops a hand to the doctor's shoulder in reassurance and thanks, returning the gesture that Bones has given him so often.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, d'you know what day it is? That's right, it's the negative forty-sixth anniversary of first contact with Vulcan! So in honor of such a prestigious date, I'm uploading a bonus chapter today. :D

Sam pulls up outside Bones' apartment building about ten minutes after the text to Jim, driving a cherry-red hovercar. A memory twinges in Jim's head as he slides into the front passenger seat, remembering another red car, with old-fashioned synthrubber tires and an ancient combustion engine, his legs too short to reach the pedals unless he sat right on the edge of the seat. The same one that he can remember falling away from him, vanishing into the depths of the Riverside Quarry, as police sirens wailed in his ears.

 

He wants to ask Sam about it, to figure out more details about _why_ he decided driving a Corvette off a cliff was a great idea, but Peter is in the back seat and Jim doesn't want to give his young nephew any ideas about fun things to do in emulation of his uncle, so Jim simply smiles over his shoulder at the boy as he buckles up. "Hey, Peter," he says instead, and a name pops into his head, unbidden. "Where's Aurelan?" he asks, since it _feels_ like the right question to ask.

 

"She's off planet right now," Sam says, steering the hovercar into the correct traffic lane, joining the steady stream of vehicles heading toward downtown San Francisco. "Starfleet's borrowing her for a three week biological survey. It's been fine without Mommy around though, right squirt?" he adds, glancing at his son in the rearview mirror.

 

"Dad lets me have ice cream for breakfast," Peter announces gleefully, nodding enthusiastically.

 

"That was only one time!" Sam protests, but he's grinning too.

 

Jim can't help but smile a bit himself. Sam and Peter aren't quite what he expected from his own memories of childhood, and the broken home in which they were raised. But from what he's seen so far, Sam is doing a _much_ better job of being a father than Frank ever even attempted. It's different... but different isn't a bad thing.

 

And he can't help but wonder how different his mother will be, too. His most recent memory of her is at least fifteen years old, after all.

 

Jim listens to the friendly father and son banter as the hovercar glides along, finally coming to a stop near the restaurant that Sam picked out. Now that they're here, Jim feels like he's swallowed a whole flock of butterflies, judging by the almost nauseating nervousness in his belly. _I'd rather be outrunning Federation border patrol right now,_ he thinks, then shakes his head at the ridiculous thought. _Get a grip, Jim. It's lunch with your own goddamn mother._

 

The restaurant is decently busy for the lunch hour, and Jim is actually somewhat glad for the noise, relaxing at the familiar sounds. He's an old hand at navigating taverns full of strangers, and it seems a lot less likely for a bar brawl to break out here than most of the _Shadowbird_ 's usual haunts. Besides, the busier a place is, the less likely it is for his presence to be noticed, and he is not in any mood to deal with either the nosy media or the adoring public.

 

So taking _that_ into account, his courage is bolstered by the familiarity of the situation, and he barely hesitates to have a seat at the small table, already occupied by a woman in civilian clothes, her graying hair done up in a regulation-compliant braid. Green eyes widen as she looks up at him, and she raises a hand to her mouth in shock.

 

_Didn't Sam tell her I was coming?_ Jim wonders with a frown, but her reaction makes a hell of a lot more sense when she reaches out to touch his head, a feather-light trace of the scar that he's become so used to seeing in the mirror. "Oh, my Jimmy..." she says, and there's a motherly concern in her eyes that is so _alien_ to him that he can't recall if she's ever looked at him that way before. "They told me what happened, but I never saw any pictures. How're you feeling?"

 

He doesn't really want to talk about the constant headaches, the way his meds sometimes make him feel tired, or any of the frustrations that have come from relearning so many skills he's forgotten - how to write, how to play chess, how to use chopsticks, and countless other tiny little things that trip him up every so often. So he just says, "Fine," and it comes out almost as a growl. He winces a little at the sound of it. While he's grateful for every bit of speech that he's regained under Bones' treatments, he _hates_ the way his voice sounds now, like he's continually getting over some kind of illness. It's even worse when he doesn't put in every effort to sound as normal as possible, conserving his energy and concentration for the long term instead of worrying about using proper sentences.

 

"Got promoted," he adds, after a moment. Bones had said it was his captaincy that prompted their reconciliation, and while he still can't recall a word of it, the way she looks at him now is such a far cry from what he remembers that it _must_ have really happened.

 

"I heard," she says, and while she's still looking at him with that irritating pity that so many people have turned on him, there's genuine pride there too. "Congratulations, Jim."

 

"Did you know that you're the first Kirk to make admiral in Starfleet?" Sam adds from Jim's right. "Youngest admiral ever, too."

 

_Special circumstance,_ Jim wants to say. Even with good reasons behind it, even though Admiral Komack had said that they'd already planned to promote him at the end of the five-year mission regardless, he can't shake the nagging thought that it's because Starfleet wants him in a post where he can't cause trouble. Where they can keep an eye on him. But he's trying not to dwell on that, so he puts on a smile that he doesn't really feel, and says, "So I hear."

 

He still feels a little on edge, the kind of polite caution he remembers from so many first contacts and diplomatic encounters, extending every courtesy while also keeping watch for any signs of hostility or treachery. But every move she makes, every word she says, he can't detect anything more sinister than maternal concern.

 

It's _weird_.

 

But he's not going to complain too much either.

 

The topic of conversation mercifully shifts away from Jim when Peter innocently asks his Grandma Nona about her adventures on the _Columbia_ , and over the next hour, Jim gradually finds himself starting to relax. As is his habit these days, he spends far more time listening than participating in the conversation, but even though Sam and his mother have a lot to talk about, they also both make an effort to include Jim. And they take care to avoid potentially touchy subjects, like the _reason_ for his promotion.

 

At least, until the subject of his birthday comes up.

 

"Jim, do you want to celebrate your birthday with us this year?" Winona asks, and though the old pain of losing her husband is still evident in her eyes, the fact that she's even _trying_ to think of the day as Jim's birthday instead of the day George Kirk died is a shock to him. It's one thing for Bones to tell him that he's in the habit of comming her every year. That's something distant, safely impersonal, like an old-style birthday card.

 

Jim hadn't been thinking about his birthday, either. It's a strange surprise to realize that it's tomorrow, a hell of a lot sooner than he thought. It's easy to lose track of the days now that he's not keeping a regular log, and he had gotten used to the Romulan calendar anyway, back when he didn't know his own name let alone when his birthday was.

 

"No," he says, but gives them a genuinely apologetic smile. "Have plans already." Technically true; Bones has been making a list of properties for rent or sale that he wants to look at with Jim and Joanna, and tomorrow they're supposed to go check them out. Sure, it's got damn near nothing to do with Jim turning thirty-two, but Jim has been less and less interested in making a big deal out of his birthday over the years. And there's a pleasant warmth in his chest when he thinks about maybe buying a house with Bones, for them to actually live together, not just having Jim crashing on the couch every night. It's almost disgustingly domestic, but it means a lot to him. Besides, he's pretty sure he's earned it by now. And there's no better way he's rather celebrate his birthday than by spending it with Bones, no matter what they're doing.

 

His mother looks disappointed, but not surprised, and she nods. "That's all right. I should have asked well in advance, but I didn't know if _Columbia_ would be back in port on time."

 

_Because she didn't want to disappoint me again._ It's an odd thing for Jim to hear, recalling fragments of birthdays over the first decade or so of his life where she never showed, or if she was there, her attention was clearly elsewhere. But right now she's nothing but sincere, and he can't bring himself to say anything about it, not when they've clearly buried the hatchet. It's not her fault that he can't remember doing so.

 

So he just gives her a small smile. "Next year?" he counter-offers.

 

"It's a date," his mother agrees, smiling back at him in relief.

 

"You can come to _my_ birthday, Uncle Jim," Peter announces, a hopeful gleam in his eyes, though Jim can't guess if it's because he wants more presents or because he wants to show off his famous uncle to his friends.

 

Either way, Jim can't help a raspy chuckle. "Sam?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

 

Sam grins back at him, and gives him a friendly, gentle punch to the shoulder. "You're always welcome at my house, Jim. I've missed the hell out of you."

 

Jim wishes he could say the same, well aware that there are probably things about his brother that remain lost to him. But at the same time, it still means a lot that his family by blood is reaching out to him when he needs them the most, no matter what's happened in the past.

 

Because if there's one thing that the last year has taught him, it's that you can never have too much family.


	57. Chapter 57

Jim has never been house-hunting before. Come to think of it, he doesn't think he's _ever_ picked out a place to live himself. The Kirk family properties on Earth and Tarsus IV were home only because his guardians at the time lived there, and between leaving Riverside and enlisting in Starfleet, he spent most of his time as a drifter, never staying in one place long enough to consider it home. And his apartment downtown isn't one he chose either; Starfleet assigned it to him when he was promoted to captain.

 

Bones, on the other hand, seems to have done this at least once before, and he has already compiled a decent list of properties to visit.

 

Jim had been expecting to get a larger apartment, so he's surprised to see that the vast majority of addresses on the list are significantly more permanent-looking. "Real houses?" he asks, raising his eyebrows as he gets into the hovercar.

 

"That a problem?" Bones counters with a frown, buckling himself into the driver's seat. "I just figured if we're both going to be posted here for the foreseeable future, it'd take sense to get something more comfortable for the long term."

 

_Long term._ Jim's heart does a funny flip in his chest, and he grins at Bones. "No, house is good."

 

Fortunately, Bones is nowhere near as afraid of driving a hovercar as he is about shuttles, although he does mutter under his breath about antigrav failure and what can happen to the human body in the event of a crash while traveling at speed. It's kind of morbid, but the familiar litany is almost comforting to hear, reminding Jim of their first meeting on the Academy shuttle, so long ago now. _Has it really been ten years?_

 

Joanna must be used to her daddy's complaints about every form of transportation known to man, because she pipes up from the back seat in a tone that implies she's said this many, many times before. "Daaad, if we crash, you have no one to blame but yourself."

 

Jim grins over at Bones, raising his eyebrows. "Not wrong, Bones."

 

"Oh, hush." But he doesn't sound irritated, looking away to hide a smile as he steers the hovercar into traffic, joining the stream of vehicles transiting San Francisco.

 

The banter is so familiar between the three of them, the same kind of banter between Sam and Peter, so similar to the friendly verbal sniping between Bones and Spock, that Jim has to laugh a little. _Is this what family is supposed to be like?_ Well even if it isn't, he's glad that _his_ family is exactly the way it is.

 

Bones glances over at him, curious at the laugh, and Jim waves him off. "Nothing. Just really familiar."

 

The doctor doesn't ask for further clarification, giving him a hesitant smile. "It's good to hear you laugh again."

 

_It is, isn't it?_ Jim hasn't had much reason to laugh since he got his voice back, especially not these past few days. But even though he's facing such drastic challenges to his health and career, right now it's not weighing as heavily upon him. Not now that he has something to look forward to. And even though it still bothers him that he has to ride along passively as a passenger, the sting is eased a bit with Bones at the wheel, driving them all toward a potential home.

 

Jim should be nervous about this, doing something he's never done before, but if anything, he's a bit excited. It's not something he's expected to recall, not something anyone believes he should know how to do flawlessly. There's no pressure for him to make a perfect decision, or to be familiar with an unknown layout and environment, and most importantly, he doesn't have to do it without help.

 

And he's doing it with _Bones_.

 

They spend a good six hours touring various properties in the suburbs of San Francisco. It's not quite as thrilling as exploring strange new worlds, but Jim still feels an optimistic sense of excitement as he and Joanna prowl the length of each house together, leaving Bones to talk to the real estate agent. It's a little weird to tour a totally empty house, no furniture or anything to muffle the fast-paced thumps of the little girl's footsteps as she dashes around, eager to explore, Jim trailing in her wake. In his mind's eye, Jim tries to picture what each place might look like fully furnished, imagining how his taste in décor might mesh with Bones'.

 

But none of the properties really resonate with him until they've gone halfway through the list.

 

The two-story house is nestled in a small community about seventeen miles off from the city limits, only a short walk away from the nearest public shuttle station. A sprawling lawn is dotted with deliberately planted trees, and Jim is delighted to recognize them as apple trees. This time of year, of course, there are neither apples nor blossoms, but he can already imagine what they'll look like in full bloom, and later, laden with fruit.

 

The house itself is nothing to sneeze at either. A black roof sits atop deep blue walls, which in turn boast large picture windows, and on the side of the building is a raised deck with plenty of room for a grill and patio furniture. Inside is even better. Three bedrooms, a state of the art kitchen that's already furnished with the basics, and a spacious living room with a real wood-burning fireplace, not just a holographic imitation.

 

To some extent, it reminds him of his childhood home back in Iowa, but unlike the Kirk farmhouse, there are no bad memories tainting this house. It's new enough to be intriguing, familiar enough to remind him of someplace he once considered home, and absolutely somewhere that he can picture serving as a safe haven from the pressures of being Admiral Kirk.

 

"This one," Jim tells Bones, after they've had a good look around.

 

"That fast?" The doctor sounds surprised. "We don't have to decide today. There's no rush and we've got other places to look at. We might find something better."

 

Jim gives him a fond yet exasperated look, the same kind that he's been on the receiving end of so many times. "Bones. _This_ one."

 

"It's perfect, Dad," Joanna agrees, bouncing up and down on her heels with barely restrained excitement. "It reminds me of Grandma Ellen's house."

 

The real estate agent smiles at them. "Sounds like you've been overruled," she says to Bones.

 

Bones gives a dramatic sigh and shrugs. "Yeah, I reckon I am," he agrees.

 

"You won't be disappointed," the agent assures him. "This is a great neighborhood for raising children, and the schools are the best in the county." She holds out her padd for Bones to take. "If you two will just sign here, I can get the paperwork started and you'll be able to move in by next week."

 

The doctor scrawls his messy signature in the space provided, then passes the padd and stylus to Jim, an empty spot on the form awaiting the second signature.

 

Jim freezes for a moment. His handwriting is still a hell of a lot worse than his ability to type, and they haven't been making him practice signing his name yet. He hesitates, stylus hovering above the surface of the padd, and he casts a pleading look at Bones.

 

The doctor understands right away, giving him an apologetic look. "Sorry, Jim, I forgot. Let's just do your initials, okay?" But as if he knows that even that will be taxing for Jim to attempt, Bones stands just behind him and curls his fingers around Jim's, gently guiding him through forming the sweeping curve of the J, the straight perpendicular lines of the T, and the angular strokes of the K.

 

His initials don't look much like his handwriting used to, but Jim finds that he doesn't mind, too focused on the warmth of Bones' hand on his own, and the puffs of breath against the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end.

 

Bones steps away, looking at Jim uncertainly, like he thinks he's overstepped his bounds. Jim doesn't understand why. But he doesn't want to ask while they have an audience, so he just smiles reassuringly and signs _thank you_ , and Bones relaxes a little.

 

"So," the doctor says, once they're back in the hovercar and heading back towards the city, "where d'you want to have dinner? It's your birthday, after all."

 

Jim considers that. They've rarely ever celebrated his birthday on the actual day. He remembers that much. And they can't just go and get drinks like they normally would, not with Joanna along. But honestly, he doesn't really mind where they go to eat. Not as long as he's spending time with people who care about him.

 

But he also misses Tytha's cooking, and he gives Bones a hopeful look. "Any Bolian places?" It won't be the same, but at least it'll be familiar.

 

"Bolian?" Bones repeats in surprise, punching it into the hovercar's nav search. "Huh, looks like there's one at Fisherman's Wharf. I think we can make that work."

 

"I've never heard of Bolian food, Uncle Jim," Joanna says curiously. "Is it something you had out in space?"

 

Jim smiles slightly, a little sad as he thinks about his shipmates from the _Shadowbird_ , and he wonders where they are now. Whether they're missing him too. "Yes. It is."

 

Bones looks over at him, sympathy in those hazel eyes, but he says nothing. Just reaches one hand over to touch Jim's for a moment, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Jim smiles back at him, thankful to have someone who understands, someone who cares.

 

And while the meal turns out to be a little different from how Tytha made it, changed a little from her recipe either to cater to the local palate or because there isn't an actual Bolian in the kitchen, the flavors still burst familiarly on his tongue, another treasured glimpse of home.

 

It's the best birthday he thinks he's ever had.


	58. Chapter 58

It's been entirely too long since McCoy has had a proper break. Sure, shore leave is always a welcome break from the stresses of long-term space travel, but it's always been too brief, too restricted in choices of where to go and what to do. There are no absolute days off when you're serving on a starship; there's always the chance that your leave will be canceled or revoked with little notice, and not being scheduled on shift doesn't mean there won't be an emergency that requires you to report to your post anyway.

 

Now, eight days into his three-week post-mission leave, McCoy finds that he's still keeping some of his shipboard habits. He rises no later than 0800, unable to sleep in, that nagging itch under his skin that he's neglecting his duty persisting even though his duty right now is nothing more than rest and relaxation. And he's usually halfway through shaving before he remembers that he doesn't need to do it every day, and then he can't stop because going out with a half stubbly face is the stupidest idea ever.

 

Kirk, on the other hand, seems to be adapting pretty well to his time off. More than once, McCoy has caught him napping at odd hours of the day, although that could be blamed on his headaches or the side effects of his meds. And while Kirk is a very active person by nature, life in space has apparently taught him how to occupy himself with more sedate pursuits, as is evident by the paperback novel he's taken to engrossing himself in when he has nothing else to do.

 

"Was lots of nothing between jobs," Kirk tells him once, when he asks about it. "Learned card games. Want to play?"

 

Which is how McCoy finds himself sitting on the carpeted floor with Kirk and Joanna, learning how to play something Kirk calls _heolnuti_ , which seems to be the Orion equivalent of poker. Though they aren't playing for anything more valuable than plain plastic poker chips, McCoy is both proud and dismayed when Joanna turns out to have a real knack for the game, raking in the winnings.

 

"I'm raising a card shark," he grumbles, more out of habit than any real annoyance or worry.

 

Kirk lets out a husky laugh, flashing him a grin. "Next time, we use _real_ money. Right, Jo?"

 

"Jim, stop teaching my daughter how to hustle. You're a bad influence." But he can't keep the amusement off his face either, and Kirk gives him that long-practiced innocent face that McCoy knew was bullshit the first time he ever saw it.

 

"Let's play another hand," Joanna suggests with a sly grin. "You've still got some chips, Dad. Maybe you'll win some back."

 

"Well... fine. One more hand."

 

They play three, just long enough for Jim and Joanna to tag-team and clear him out completely of the remainder of his chips. But as far as losing goes, this is definitely the way McCoy prefers to do it.

 

* * *

 

And so the days pass.

 

McCoy had thought that he and Kirk were close before, but after years of living on opposite sides of Deck Five and rarely seeing each other before breakfast, it's a whole other thing to see signs of Kirk's presence in his life. A second shaving kit by the sink, the admiral's preferred shampoo and soaps finding a home in the shower cubicle, his prescription medication joining the generic pill bottles in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. A small stack of vintage paperback novels on the small table by the couch, a black leather jacket hung on one of the coat hooks by the door, the precious battered tin of _raktajino_ mix stashed in the pantry.

 

It reminds him of Jocelyn, a little. Before the romance soured and she left him with nothing.

 

And he can't really deny that it's nice to delude himself, if just for a moment, that Jim is his spouse instead.

 

They've practically lived in each other's pockets for years anyway. As far back as the Academy, no one has ever tried to be his friend as persistently as Kirk did, seeing right past the curmudgeonly "old country doctor" routine like it was never there in the first place. In return, McCoy is pretty sure that he knows Kirk better than anyone else alive, excepting of course those who've mind melded with him. Hard to compete with _that_. But he's the one that Kirk always went to first whenever he needed someone to talk to, looking for advice or just a listening ear, or something to just sit with him and join him in getting absolutely shitfaced drunk.

 

But Kirk was his commanding officer, back then. Regulations aren't very supportive of a captain hooking up with his subordinates, and Kirk had never brought it up. And while McCoy occasionally thought about it, he'd thought it best to not mention anything either, postponing any such thoughts for a future date when Kirk _wasn't_ his direct superior officer. They'd have plenty of time, right? Plenty of time to figure out where they stood, whether there could ever be anything more, or if it would be better not to try and risk ruining the best friendship either of them have ever had.

 

But then Kirk was taken.

 

And now he isn't quite the same anymore.

 

Sure, he's still _Jim_ in all the ways that count. He's brave and loyal, stubborn and proud, and quite possibly the toughest son of a bitch that McCoy has ever known. He's still compassionate and thoughtful, still has the same sense of humor, the same sharp intelligence, and although he's shown it only rarely these past three months, he can still exercise that bold air of command as easy as breathing.

 

But the devil is in the details, and after knowing Kirk for damn near a decade, McCoy can't help but notice. He's quieter, a little less eager to power his way through a conversation, instead spending more time listening - _actually_ listening, not just politely pretending he is. He's a little quicker to seek out medical attention when he needs it, instead of acting like he's fine and hoping it'll go away. He frowns a little more, especially when it's obvious he's struggling to remember something he's forgotten. And while he's okay spending some time alone, he understandably prefers being in the same room as someone else, even if he's not interacting with them directly.

 

It's pretty clear that he still feels closer to McCoy than anyone else. Asking to live together was a big damn clue. But the doctor can't tell if that's because of what they had before, a relationship closer than brothers but nothing else discussed between them, or if Kirk has only latched onto him because he's spent so much time in Sickbay since leaving the smugglers' ship, bolstered by what he _does_ remember of their friendship as it was.

 

It isn't fair to expect Kirk to be the same as he was before, for him to really understand how close he and McCoy had become, or expect him to pick up where he left off. The last thing McCoy wants to do is pressure him into doing anything he doesn't want to do just because he thinks it's expected of him. And bringing it up now would feel like taking advantage of him, like emotional blackmail or something.

 

It's enough that Kirk still wants to be friends. And if he _needs_ to live with someone, McCoy is honored to be trusted enough to be the one that Kirk has chosen. Even if that's as far as this ever goes, McCoy will be there for him. Whatever he needs.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next couple of chapters were kind of a mindfuck for me to write since San Francisco doesn't get down to what *I* consider cold in the winter, lol. Even worse, apparently it gets colder in Georgia than it does in the Bay Area! Welp. We'll just pretend the climate is a little different in the twenty-third century, because I like the idea of Bones bundling up against the cold, cold temperature of forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. ;)

Being on a planet twenty-four hours a day is still somewhat of a novelty to Jim.

 

Sure, it's not the first time he's spent an extended amount of time on the surface of a planet. Not even the first time it's been Earth, either. But aside from relatively brief shore leaves and planetside missions, he's spent the last five _years_ in space. Even the _Shadowbird_ spent more time in the air than in port, not earning any money at rest, always leaving for the blackness of space as soon as they got a job to do.

 

This is the first time in a long while that he's had nowhere urgent to go or to do, but oddly, he finds that he doesn't mind so much. Not with Bones and Joanna. And it seems like a waste of their time to stay cooped up in Bones' apartment all the time when Joanna has to go back to school in Atlanta soon, when Bones is going to have to report for duty at Starfleet Medical in two weeks, and Jim is going to have to start spending his days at Starfleet Headquarters. And in a few days, they're going to be too busy moving house to spend any real quality time together.

 

_Let's go somewhere,_ he signs to Bones over breakfast. _All three us._

 

They've taken to eating breakfast together every morning, although sometimes Joanna sleeps in a bit and doesn't join them until the adults are halfway through their early morning meal. But Jim has come to look forward to sitting at the table with Bones and Joanna, and parts of his memory that he doesn't like to think about stay quieter when he sees that everyone has enough food, even if Joanna's sugary cereal probably contains less nutrients than a cardboard box.

 

"You mean like doing the tourist thing?" Bones asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

 

Jim nods, and he's glad that he's already looked up some potential destinations on his padd. "Zoo?" he suggests.

 

Joanna doesn't know Terran Sign, but she tunes into the conversation instantly at the mention of going someplace, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, please Dad?" she begs shamelessly, her cereal forgotten.

 

"It's January!" Bones protests. "It's cold outside."

 

"It's not _that_ cold," Joanna counters. "It doesn't even snow here."

 

Jim raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement. "Forty-five degrees out."

 

"Fine, fine." Bones throws his hands in the air dramatically, and he sighs heavily. "At least it's educational."

 

Jim has never been to a zoo before. There aren't a lot of them in Iowa, after all, and visiting one wasn't exactly a priority during his transient years. The San Francisco Zoo is one of the largest on the continent, its exhibits significantly expanded from its early days, now holding hundreds of alien animals from dozens of worlds, including one of the only remaining breeding pairs of the Vulcan le-matya.

 

Joanna excitedly skips from exhibit to exhibit, voraciously devouring every scrap of knowledge from the holo placards about each species. Jim and Bones follow at a much more relaxed pace, just enjoying spending time with each other, and Jim can't stop smiling. The weather is fairly gray and dreary, but it's not raining and the temperature is above freezing, and Bones looks kind of cute all bundled up in his woolen winter coat, still a Georgia boy through and through.

 

Jim, of course, is comfortable using nothing heavier than the battered leather jacket that he brought over from the _Shadowbird_ , though out of deference to Bones' griping about the chill of San Francisco in January, he's wrapped a soft fleece scarf from the doctor's wardrobe around his neck. It's a familiar sensation, and even though he knows that the brand on his nape is covered with ink now, it's an extra layer of comfort to have that customary light weight resting across the back of his neck.

 

"I don't know how you can stand the cold," Bones grumbles, shooting a mock glare at Jim.

 

Out in public, Jim is reluctant to use his voice much, self-conscious about the way he sounds. Even though he knows he won't be able to avoid speaking once he reports for duty as Chief of Starfleet Operations, he doesn't see the harm in sticking with Terran Sign on occasion, not when he knows Bones will understand. So he shrugs, and turns towards the doctor, forming the gestures to fingerspell _I-O-W-A_.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you Midwesterners are all loonies who walk to school uphill, both ways, in snow up to your neck," Bones answers, and even though he's scowling, Jim can tell he's amused.

 

Jim grins a little, and leans against the railing next to the penguin enclosure, watching the flightless birds waddle around. They look just as ridiculous as he's heard they did, at least on land. One penguin dives headfirst into the water and suddenly the funny little critter is transformed into a sleek biological torpedo, jetting through the water with ease, perfectly at home in its element.

 

Bones leans on the railing next to him, close enough that Jim can actually feel the warmth of the doctor's coat against his elbow. No more than fifteen feet away, Joanna is reading the holo placard out loud to herself, something about penguins sometimes raising their chicks in same-sex pair bonds, but there's nobody else nearby. Not in earshot, anyway. So Jim plucks up his courage and clears his throat. "Don't think I thanked you."

 

"For what?" Bones asks, turning a slightly puzzled look on him.

 

"Patience." The doctor's hand is right next to Jim's, and it takes very little for him to move it over, touching Bones' glove-covered hand with his bare fingers. "With me."

 

Bones' frown deepens, uncertainty in those hazel eyes, but he still turns his hand over, clasping his fingers around Jim's. "You're making great progress. Give it another few months and I bet you'll be able to write your own reports."

 

Jim shakes his head. "Not what I meant." But he's encouraged that Bones isn't pulling away, letting him decide how to reach out, like he's been doing all along. "Meant _me_."

 

Bones still doesn't look like he understands, but he smiles at Jim anyway, squeezing his hand slightly. "Jim, I don't expect you to be exactly the same as you were before. You don't have to try to be someone you're not. Not for me, or anybody else."

 

It's nothing he hasn't said before, but Jim's seen that disappointed look in his eyes, no matter how much Bones denies it. The last thing he wants to do is break Bones' heart by not being who he used to be.

 

And he thinks he's waited long enough to get his answer. He is a Starfleet _admiral_ now, and he's not going to let juvenile jitters get the best of him. "Bones..." Jim looks him straight in the eye, seeking the truth. And before he can lose his nerve, he leans in and captures the doctor's lips with his own in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Penguins. I am completely unsubtle.


	60. Chapter 60

_Jim is kissing me._

 

The thought bounces around in McCoy's head, silencing all other thoughts save for those handling the sensations of Kirk's warm lips on his own, the sharp scratch of stubble against his chin, Kirk's free hand winding fingers into his hair, almost cradling the back of his skull, and he's mildly surprised to find that Kirk tastes of coffee and cinnamon and hazelnut.

 

It's something he's wondered since... he can't quite pinpoint when. But now that it's actually happening, he can't quite believe it, wondering when he's going to wake up, or snap out of this daydream.

 

But Kirk pulls back a little, looking at him with those soul-piercing blue eyes, uncertainty written across his face. "Bones?" he asks, his hand leaving the back of McCoy's head, and the doctor feels oddly bereft before Kirk's hand comes to rest against his cheek instead. His fingers are cold from the January chill, but McCoy barely notices, too intently focused on the feel of such an intimate touch after so long without. And it's _Jim_.

 

"Jim," McCoy begins, but then words fail him, and he doesn't know what to say. He swallows, trying to gather his courage, unsure what _for_. "Not... that I'm complaining, but... where did that come from?"

 

Kirk looks startled by the question, and there's something lurking in his eyes, like he's teetering on the edge of a precipice and one wrong move will send him tumbling into the abyss. "Weren't we...?" His voice is barely more than a hesitant, hoarse whisper.

 

That confused, euphoric feeling in his gut turns to ice in an instant. _Did I lead him on somehow? Make him somehow think I was trying to get him back how he was because we were together?_ The absolute _last_ thing he wants to do to Kirk is mold him into something he's not, to pressure him to conform to anyone's expectations of who or what he should be. Not even his own. And with Kirk looking at him now, his heart unmasked and vulnerable, McCoy would rather die than hurt him.

 

But he also can't lie to Kirk. Not about this.

 

He lifts his free hand to Kirk's jaw, almost a perfect mirror of the young admiral, and gives their joined hands a gentle squeeze. "No, Jim. We weren't." But before that shattered, heartbroken look in Kirk's eyes can truly take root, McCoy gently brushes his gloved thumb across Kirk's cheek, hoping the touch will help keep him grounded, listening to what McCoy has to say. "You were my commanding officer, Jim. Regulations frown on that sort of thing."

 

Kirk's lips part in a silent _oh_ , and his brow furrows as he gives that some thought, utterly silent. "Wanted it?" he asks, raising his eyes to search McCoy's face hopefully.

 

"Well _I_ sure did, but it never really came up," McCoy admits. "I'd kinda figured we'd talk it over after the mission, figure out if we wanted to do anything about it. We were damn close, Jim." To each other, to being able to openly discuss their feelings, and the future.

 

Kirk slowly nods, and though he says nothing, McCoy can see that brilliant mind working at lightspeed, and there's a spark of _something_ in those impossibly blue eyes of his. He leans his forehead against McCoy's, nose to nose, the warm puffs of his breath mingling with the doctor's, and when he speaks, the usual rasp of his voice is an almost husky growl. "Not your CO anymore."

 

The ice in his stomach is slowly melting, and he feels almost light-headed at the relief of it, the slow realization that Kirk still wants this, of his own accord, that he must _remember_ enough to recognize what had been unspoken between them, even if he did leap a little too far with his conclusion. Even _that_ is such a classic Jim thing for him to do.

 

He's changed so much. But at his core, he's still the same person.

 

McCoy can't stop a stupid grin from teasing at his lips, and there's a warm fire kindling in his chest, chasing away the winter chill. "Damn right you're not, _admiral_."

 

There's a small noise, like someone clearing their throat, and McCoy glances to the side, his eyes meeting his daughter's. Joanna is giving them both an inscrutable frown, her hands on her hips. "Dad. Uncle Jim."

 

They both let go of each other simultaneously, Kirk's cheeks pink from more than just the cold, and McCoy can feel the heat rising in his own face. "Joanna..." he starts, then hesitates. What the hell is he supposed to say when his daughter just caught her daddy and favorite uncle in a compromising embrace?

 

Joanna's hazel eyes stare them down, and she looks so unimpressed that it's like looking into a mirror of his own face, just littler and female. He fully expects her to read him the riot act about getting all mushy in public, or worse, voice her disapproval of him getting into a relationship that isn't with her mother, in a child's selfish desire to see her parents reunite. But instead, she looks sternly at both of them and says, "If you weren't interested in seeing the penguins, you could've _said_ so."

 

There's a moment of silence where McCoy just gapes at her, and at his side, Kirk lets out a bark of laughter, the rare sound sending warmth straight to McCoy's heart. "Sorry, Jo," Kirk says, amusement and relief evident in that hoarse voice.

 

"We're very interested in the penguins, sweetheart," McCoy says, exchanging a small sheepish grin with Kirk. "Why don't you tell us all about what you've learned?"

 

Joanna is giving them a look that clearly says she isn't buying the sudden innocent routine, but she grabs their hands in each of hers and pulls them further along the exhibit, reciting the facts from the holo placards from memory, ever his smart little girl. And as she chatters about how fascinating penguins are, the annoyance in her voice is quickly replaced by childlike enthusiasm.

 

Over her head, Kirk smiles at him fondly, a silent promise to talk about this later. While Joanna is holding their hands, there's no way for Kirk to sign to him. But McCoy needs no translation to read the familiar expression on Kirk's face, not this time.

 

And when Joanna decides that she can trust them not to wander away from such an interesting educational experience and gives them the liberty of their hands back, Kirk's hand is instantly drawn back to McCoy's like a plasma-seeking torpedo, interlacing their fingers as they walk through the cool winter air of San Francisco.


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today! We're getting close to the end, but I may revisit this 'verse in future fic-writing. I have plenty of scenes I wanted to write that I never got around to fitting into the main story, so they may have to serve as one-shots, if I ever get around to writing them.

So. Not in a relationship.

 

At least, not _then_.

 

Jim has to admit that he didn't quite see that coming.

 

Still, it's nice to know that he _isn't_ missing such a huge gap of memory as would be necessary to entirely forget such an important shift in his friendship with Bones. And knowing that there was at least _some_ mutual attraction does explain some of the memories he has of them spending time together alone through the years. A quiet drink in the officer's mess on his birthday, hanging out between classes at the Academy, Bones camping out on his couch for a week after Jim was released from the hospital, still recuperating from being brought back from the dead. And he has to admit that Starfleet regulations getting in the way of acknowledging anything deeper than that makes a hell of a lot of sense as to why they never did a damn thing about it.

 

Jim stumbles for a moment as a thought abruptly occurs to him. _If I was captain of the_ Enterprise _right now, we still wouldn't be._

 

"You okay, Jim?" Bones asks, that familiar tone of worry in his voice.

 

Jim nods, smiling a bit despite himself. _Good old Bones._ "Thinking," he admits.

 

Bones gives him a look that clearly says he wants to know more details than _that_ , but then Joanna is running up to them and she tugs on her daddy's free hand. "Dad, can we feed the fish?"

 

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Bones says, and though he has to let go of Jim's hand to dig out the appropriate currency units for the fish food dispenser, Jim doesn't mind the loss of contact. He doesn't need it to know that Bones isn't going anywhere, after all.

 

They've been walking for a while, so Jim has a seat on a nearby park bench and watches Bones help Joanna get a few handfuls of little brown pellets to sprinkle into the koi pond. The big colorful fish swarm the surface of the zoo's wetlands exhibit, and the little girl watches them in fascination, leaning over the railing to get a better look, the doctor holding onto her shoulders so she doesn't tip in. _Bones is a good dad,_ Jim reflects, smiling faintly at the father-daughter bonding moment, something they've been deprived of these past five years.

 

Jim has never really given serious consideration to what it must be like to be a parent. Besides the obvious separation issues inherent with having a parent in the service, anyway; Sulu's habit of pinning Demora's photo to the corner of the helm console was a daily reminder of that. And of course he has enough memories of his own mother's absence throughout his childhood that he'd never wanted to inflict that on some poor innocent kid.

 

But he's also never given much thought to what he wanted _after_ his tour of duty was up, either. He would've been promoted eventually regardless, or retired after multiple tours at a ripe old age, like the counterpart he saw in the late Ambassador Spock's memories during that mind meld on Delta Vega.

 

 _A reminder to me that all things end._ The old Vulcan's voice almost echoes in his mind, a fragment of memory that was never Jim's, and though he has no context for the words, he finds himself dwelling on them anyway.

 

His captaincy would never have lasted forever. But Bones would have stuck by his side for as long as it lasted, going out into the void that he hates so much, and missing out on being part of Joanna's life. And never once would they have been able to take that next step, keeping each other at arm's reach, wasting years upon years of unrequited feelings.

 

This still isn't the way Jim would've chosen to change that. And his heart still lies in that star-studded black expanse where he was born, missing the _Enterprise_ and the _Shadowbird_ every day. But with the uncertain future stretching out before him, Bones is still here. And maybe... maybe that means that being Admiral Kirk won't be so bad after all.

 

"Uncle Jim!" Joanna's voice cuts through his contemplation, and he looks up to see her waving him over. "Come on, we're gonna see the sehlats!"

 

He smiles and stands, and when he joins them, this time it's Bones who reaches for Jim's hand first, linking the three of them together.

 

* * *

 

Joanna is well and truly tired out from their outing by the time they make it home that evening, though she refuses to admit to it, as stubborn as her daddy. At least up until she dozes off on the couch, her hot chocolate only halfway gone, the mug sitting on the coffee table next to Jim's books. Jim doesn't try to move her to the guest room, instead taking the blanket he's been using and draping it over her to keep her warm.

 

Bones is watching him from the other side of the living room, his own warm mug still cradled between his hands to chase away the chill. "That was a good idea you had today," the doctor murmurs, keeping his voice low so they won't wake his daughter.

 

There's no room in the armchair for Jim unless he sits on Bones' lap, and as romantic as that sounds, he's _pretty_ sure that in reality it'd be way too awkward for two fully grown men to try sharing one dinky little chair. So he sits down on the floor instead, leaning his back against Bones' legs, and lets out a small hum of contentment when one of the doctor's hands drops to his head, gently carding through his hair. "You mean zoo, or kiss?" he whispers back, half-closing his eyes.

 

He can't see Bones' face, but by god, he can _hear_ the smirk. "I meant the zoo, but either one works. How long have you thought we were a couple?"

 

Jim shrugs one shoulder, reluctant to move for fear that Bones' steady, soothing hand will stop its caress. "Week, maybe? Thought something else I forgot."

 

"Guess that makes sense. I can't imagine what it must feel like, to not know what you're missing." The sympathy in his voice is familiar, and as comforting as the fingers twining through his hair, the touch chasing away some of the ache in his head, which isn't so bad today. There's no pity or judgment from Bones, no pressure for Jim to pretend that he knows what the hell he's doing, both of them navigating uncharted waters.

 

But there's something that's been bugging him, ever since Bones admitted that they'd never officially been anything more than captain and CMO, never more than just friends. And he swallows against the lump that is threatening to form in his throat and choke off his voice. "Bones... still want me?"

 

There's a puzzled pause, and Bones' hand stills on Jim's head. "Well I didn't hold your hand damn near all day for nothin', if that's what you mean."

 

Jim cranes his neck back a bit, enough to see those hazel eyes looking back at him. "I'm broken, Bones. Not same Jim."

 

"Yes, you are." The doctor's response is immediately, insistent, and he audibly catches himself before he gets loud enough to wake Joanna. "Jim, I wouldn't care if you were missing an arm or got turned into a Klingon. Those bastards that hurt you took away a lot, but don't you dare sit here and tell me you're not the same Jim Kirk I've known for ten goddamn years. People _change_ , Jim. It's what we do. It doesn't mean you're not still the same stubborn son of a bitch that beat the _Kobayashi Maru_ into submission, the same ambitious cadet whose quick thinking got you promoted straight to captain, the same compassionate captain who earned the loyalty of over four hundred men and women by giving your life for theirs without hesitation. You're still James Tiberius Kirk in all the ways that matter, and I haven't seen a goddamn thing that says you're not."

 

Jim is aware that he's gaping up at Bones, his mouth hanging open stupidly, and everything is blurry and there's this feeling in his chest like his heart wants to burst, absolutely overflowing and overwhelmed. "Bones..."

 

The doctor leans forward, and even though he has to practically fold himself in half to hug Jim from behind, he doesn't gripe one bit about his back. Bones' lips brush against his temple, the doctor's arms wrapped around his upper chest as he leans against Jim's back. "You're not broken," he murmurs into Jim's ear, his warm breath ghosting past Jim's cheek. "You're different now, but so am I. Don't you dare try to tell me I can't love you as you are."

 

Jim lifts his hands to hold onto Bones' arms, warm and safe in his embrace, and he can't bring himself to speak. All he can do is close his eyes and lean back into the doctor's touch, his eyes hot with unshed tears, and he is finally able to name that deep, fathomless feeling blooming in his chest.

 

It feels like hope. It feels like understanding.

 

It feels like love.


	62. Chapter 62

Jim doesn't sleep on the couch that night.

 

Bones' bed isn't really big enough for two grown men to fit very well, barely bigger than the single bunks they were assigned on the _Enterprise_. But Jim spent five months sleeping in a hammock that rocked and swayed with every twitch he made, with every vibration of the rumbling engines, so trying to sleep cuddled up with Bones doesn't intimidate him in the slightest.

 

After all, that just means they have to get closer to each other, right?

 

He's had the opportunity to observe Bones asleep on countless occasions through the years - at the Academy, on overnight planetary missions, and occasionally on the _Enterprise_ herself - and he nearly always sleeps the same way. Flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely across his belly. And he always snores a little once he's out, a gentle rumble in his chest with every breath he inhales.

 

Jim thinks that sounds just perfect. He slips into the bed, pillowing his head on Bones' shoulder and upper chest, pressing his chest up against the doctor's side, and hooks one of his legs around Bones', fitting against him like he was always meant to be here. He lets out a little sigh of contentment, hearing the faint but steady thudding of the doctor's heartbeat in his ear.

 

"Never took you for a cuddler," Bones says, sounding a little amused.

 

Jim smiles a little, sneaking one hand across the planes of Bones' chest to find the doctor's free hand. There are a lot of things he could say, but they require more effort than he wants to expend, already more relaxed than he's been in a long time. "Comfy," he says instead, muttering it against Bones' chest. "Won't fall off."

 

"Good point." Bones' thumb rubs slow, soft circles against the back of Jim's hand. "I just figured if you ever got me in your bed, you'd be going straight for the fun part."

 

Jim smirks, and he rolls his head a little to look up at Bones. "Knew you wanted my body."

 

"I'm serious, Jim. Decreased libido is a common side effect of-"

 

"Bones," Jim interrupts, before the doctor can spoil the moment with medical-ese. " _Your_ bed's too small. Can wait." Truth be told, he'd be willing to give it a shot if Bones really wanted. He hasn't slept with anyone for months, if not longer, and his body is definitely interested, pressed up against Bones' side like he is. But honestly... sex just isn't what he wants right now.

 

He shuts his eyes, the sound of the doctor's heartbeat almost as soothing as the healthy rumble of the _Shadowbird_ 's engines in his ear, and he mumbles, "Just wanna sleep."

 

"Fair enough." Bones doesn't sound disappointed, and he drops a brief kiss on the top of Jim's head. "We'll have to get a bigger bed for the house."

 

Jim smiles sleepily against Bones' side, and hums in agreement.

 

* * *

 

It's been a while since McCoy has moved house, but some things, you never forget.

 

They spend an entire day packing, crating up everything that they won't need for the next day or two. Framed images, appliances, knickknacks, clothes, everything. He enlists Joanna and Kirk's help to sort through it all, and the admiral gets in some writing practice by labeling each crate with the room its contents belong to. His handwriting is still atrocious, but with a little help, it's legible and spelled mostly correctly, which is more than he was capable a few months ago. And once they're done at McCoy's apartment, they start all over at Kirk's, packing up the personal belongings that weren't already at the doctor's apartment.

 

The moving itself is a quick, painless procedure. Site-to-site cargo transporters beam the packed up crates and furniture from the apartment to the house in the suburbs, and then they get to discover how to best fill the blank canvas of their new home together.

 

After replacing McCoy's bed with a bigger one, of course.

 

If he'd thought Kirk's presence in his apartment had become intertwined with his own before, it's nothing compared to how thoroughly integrated it is now. No longer a temporary guest, there's no need for him to metaphorically live out of a suitcase anymore, and starting from scratch has allowed them to design their personal space around them both, from the very beginning.

 

Kirk's casual clothes take up half the space in the closet of the master bedroom now, accompanied by a new set of white and gray uniforms befitting his new rank, hanging alongside McCoy's own new uniforms, white Medical scrubs with a commander's rank on the sleeves. The small table to the left of the bed is the new home of whatever novel Kirk is currently reading in his off-hours, often weighted down by that silver bracelet of his, when he's not wearing it. And even though food synthesizers have largely eliminated a need to keep large quantities of food in the house, the pantry is now stocked with some of Kirk's favorites.

 

The admiral stashing food around his house is nothing new; Kirk did that back at the Academy too, and to a lesser extent, on the _Enterprise_. And while McCoy regrets that Kirk still feels the need to do so, remembering enough of Tarsus IV to still show its traumatic aftereffects on his psyche, it's nevertheless a familiar sign that he's at ease with his environment. After all, he never did it in a place that he thought would be temporary, saving it instead for places he considered safe refuge.

 

In other words... home.

 

In a new house, with a bigger bed, there's not as much need for them to lie as close together as the first night. But they do anyway, Kirk's chest pressed up against his side, one leg loosely hooked around McCoy's. It's a little strange, sharing a bed with someone again after so many years.

 

But he's pretty sure he can get used to it.


	63. Chapter 63

One month after the _Enterprise_ 's arrival at Earth, the great ship is almost prepared to leave once more. Her mission this time is only expected to last two months at the most, nothing like the five years of her prior assignment, and Spock is confident that he will be fully capable of handling it.

 

He does, however, illogically wish that things could be different.

 

At the helm, first officer Sulu is conducting his preflight checks, and at his side, Lieutenant Chekov does the same with the navigations console. "All systems ready, captain," Sulu reports. "We're ready for inspection."

 

"All decks report ready," Uhura says from the comms station at the back of the bridge. "The admiral is en route to the bridge."

 

"Very well, lieutenant commander," Spock acknowledges. He does not know who Starfleet has assigned to conduct the pre-mission assessment of the _Enterprise_ , but if there is any justice in the universe, there is only one man that it should be.

 

The turbolift doors slide open, and Spock stands to attention, the rest of the bridge crew following suit. "Admiral on the bridge!"

 

The gray and white uniform sits well on broad shoulders, wrists encircled with gold stripes, and one side of Admiral James T. Kirk's mouth quirks up in a smile. "Permission to come aboard, captain." His voice is still rough in quality, and his words slightly slow in cadence, but his speech is strong and clear, bent to the admiral's indomitable will, with less visible effort than he once required.

 

"Permission granted, Admiral Kirk," Spock greets him. "Welcome aboard."

 

All around the bridge, the crew are finding it difficult to restrain their emotional displays at his presence, whether it is sorrow or delight. But Kirk meets the gaze of each one, gratitude in those improbably blue eyes. "Thank you, all. At ease."

 

"I believe you will find the _Enterprise_ to be shipshape and fully prepared for launch, admiral," Spock tells him, and though he would be reluctant to admit it, he is satisfied that Starfleet has seen fit to allow Kirk this one last tour of the ship that he had loved so much.

 

"I'll be judge of that," Kirk answers, and that half-smile has not left his lips as he looks around the bridge fondly. But though Spock had expected his affection to be directed towards the ship, Kirk instead looks almost solely to the people.

 

Spock supposes that makes logical sense, if such a thing can be applied to emotions. This is the second _Enterprise_ , not quite identical to the first. She has been their home, as was the previous _Enterprise_ , but it is not the ship herself where Kirk had found his refuge. A starship is mere metal and circuitry, a means to an end. It is the personnel that make the ship remarkable, not the other way around. And it is to the crew that he must give a proper send-off.

 

"Very well, admiral," Spock agrees, inclining his head. "I would be pleased to give you the tour, if I may."

 

Kirk smiles at him now, and while there is the expected sadness in his eyes to say farewell to this ship and her crew, there is also a contentedness and confidence that has been sorely missing as of late. A peace of mind in regards to his fate, which no longer includes the command chair. "Thank you, captain."

 

But before they depart the bridge, Kirk pauses at the entrance to the turbolift and turns to face the officers present. "Bones and I are having a barbeque in two months. I expect to see you all there."

 

"Is that an order, sir?" Sulu asks, his expression one of the highest solemnity, betrayed by the bright spark in his eyes.

 

"You bet your ass," Kirk answers, as the lift doors slide closed.

 

* * *

 

McCoy stands at one of the massive observation windows of Spacedock, and watches the USS _Enterprise_ uncouple from her umbilical connection to the station. Under Sulu's experienced hands, the ship expertly wheels around to face away from Earth, aligning her bulk for the jump to warp, sunlight playing across her hull as she turns.

 

The sound of footsteps approaching come from behind him, and he doesn't have to turn to see who it is. A hand slips around his waist, and he reciprocates without looking, grasping lightly at the starched fabric under his fingers. "How'd it go?" he asks, and what he really means is _how are you holding up?_

 

But he needn't have worried.

 

"Good," Kirk answers, and there's no lie in his voice, only a little weariness from having to put in the effort to speak more precisely and completely, to recite his lines as dictated by regulations. But with McCoy, he has no need to exhaust himself that way. "Gonna miss 'em."

 

"Me too," McCoy admits. "God help me, I'm even going to miss the hobgoblin. Won't miss being stuck in a tin can millions of miles away from civilization, though."

 

Kirk chuckles, and outside the massive window, the _Enterprise_ fires up her impulse engines to move away from Spacedock, rolling slightly from side to side in a deliberate motion, like ancient aircraft used to wave in acknowledgment with their wings. Then she snaps into warp, vanishing into the black.

 

They don't move to leave right away, standing together, watching the stars slowly pass across the window as the station rotates in orbit, and a bright blue glow precedes the rise of Earth as it passes into their field of view, the sunlight glinting off the Pacific Ocean. And down there, barely visible through the clouds, is the coast of California, and San Francisco Bay.

 

It's the sort of thing that ancient poets would write sonnets about, seeing the planet from space, a gigantic cerulean sphere floating in the void. Kirk turns his eyes on McCoy, as blue and unfathomably deep as the sea below. "They'll be back."

 

"They'd better be," McCoy grumbles, and although he is genuinely worried for the safety of the ship and her crew, even he has to admit that they're in good hands.

 

"They will," Kirk insists, and leans his head against McCoy's, fitting against his side like he was always meant to be there, the black ink on the back of his neck just barely peeking above the high collar of his dress uniform. "Family comes home."

 

And he certainly can't argue with that.

 

 

 

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

 

-William Ernest Henley, _Invictus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end at last.
> 
> I still have plans to post other snippets, missing scenes and one-shots, and so forth, attached to this series. I have no ideas for a sequel at this time but I'm not ruling it out either. :)
> 
> This story began as a sixteen-chapter outline and I expected it to be no longer than 20k words long. I never anticipated that the story would evolve as far as it did, nor that it would become the longest single story I've ever written, but I'm more than happy with the result. Thank you everybody for reading!


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